


if this is to end in fire

by asthiathien



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of being the Ringbearer, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Bilbo, BAMF Thorin, Bilbo Is Awesome, Bilbo feels, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Overprotective Thorin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The One Ring - Freeform, Thorin Feels, Thorin POV, safe for Dáin fans, very Thorin-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthiathien/pseuds/asthiathien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 3019 of the Third Age of Middle-earth, Thorin Oakenshield and the last members of Bilbo's Resistance make a final, desperate stand at Mordor in an attempt to destroy the Ring of Power. . . but very little goes according to plan, and Eru Ilúvatar is not exactly ready to allow Thorin Oakenshield the peace he so sorely misses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Third Age, 3019_

 

Fire streaks across the sky, bright and screaming, almost drowning out the cries of battle in the valley below as Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under A Nonexistent Mountain and The Leader of Bilbo’s Resistance, stands with one hand resting upon his sword and the other clenched into a fierce fist about a small golden ring that hangs on a chain around his neck. The iron links cut into the soft skin of his throat but he doesn’t feel it, preoccupied as he is keeping up a war chant of _no, no, never, I refuse_ against the horrific whispering in the back of his mind, evil curling blackly at the base of his skull and murmuring seductively into his deepest heart –

A hand, slender and too large for a dwarf, falls upon his shoulder and a voice cries out, “Thorin!” in the silvery accent of the Firstborn, and with a gasp Thorin breaks away from the Ring’s whispers to look up at Legolas Thranduilion, now the King of the Equally Nonexistent Mirkwood/Greenwood.

“Thorin,” his friend continues more softly, subtly stepping closer to offer his support, here at the ending of the world.

Another Thorin would have cut the Elf’s hand off for daring to touch him. That Thorin died in the fires of war, died when a too-young Hobbit smiled up at him and whispered, _I loved you since the day we met, you know?_ before closing his eyes and slipping into the shadow of death.

The Thorin that stands here, now, is older and wiser and a thousand times more shattered and broken.

“We know the dread weight you bear, Thorin-King,” Éowyn, Shieldmaiden and Queen of Rohan, says as she steps up beside him to look down into the valley of war. “We know what it has cost you. Our only question is: will you have the strength to bear it one last time?”

Thorin bows his head – he wears no crown, nothing to identify him as the last of the great dwarf kings. He was never worthy of them.

_But here and now, at the end,_ he thinks, _I will be their king._

Thorin II Oakenshield’s head comes up, Durin-blue eyes narrowing fiercely upon the battle being waged far below them, lingering with a terrible resolve upon the mountain that looms behind. They have fought sixty long years for this chance, and he _will_ take it. No matter the cost.

“Our royal cousin Dáin Ironfoot lies besieged by the armies of Mordor,” Thorin says, a ringing of mighty power lacing his words. “Does he stand alone?”

“Nay,” Éowyn says as she draws her sword, “for he is defended by the forces of Rohan.”

“And likewise by those of the Elves,” Legolas says in a voice of lethal determination, the promise of death singing upon the wind as it surges suddenly behind the last scion of the Elvish royalty.

“Well, you dinnae truly expect me to let you lot ’ave all the fun, did ye?” another voice says suddenly, and Thorin feels a strange sensation almost akin to hope making his heart soar and briefly driving back the darkness humming within his skull.

“Gimli!” Legolas cries with utter delight, then trailing off into a barrage of joyous Sindarin, as the Firebeard warrior blushes fiercely.

“Right, laddie, tha’s enough o’ tha’,” Gimli says, but the smile beneath his beard tells of his happiness as Legolas hugs him, uncaring of the dirt and blood smeared across his armour.

“We thought you dead,” Éowyn says curiously, and Gimli grins brightly.

“Never underestimate the survival capabilities of a dwarf,” he says, before jerking his thumb at a few, equally disheveled Men standing behind him. “I found this ‘opeless lot wanderin’ the Wild.”

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor and brother of Boromir,” their leader says, bowing deeply to Thorin. “And we are the last survivors of the White City.”

“Aragorn and Arwen. . . ?” Legolas trails off, and Faramir shakes his head.

“Lost somewhere in the collapse of Minas Tirith. Aragorn held the defenses to the end.”

“Just like my brother and uncle, within the Deeping Wall,” Éowyn mutters bitterly, and Thorin reaches up and clumsily places a comforting hand upon her shoulder before he turns to the newcomers, eyes cold and hard as mithril.

“All those who can stand with us are welcome, but this day is the ending of the world. You must not falter in combat now, otherwise all will be lost. Can you bear this weight? None will judge you if you cannot.”

“Thorin II Oakenshield,” and here Faramir’s eyes linger upon the hand clenched at the Dwarf-King’s throat, “nay, Thorin Ringbearer, Thorin Nazgûl-Slayer, _we will stand beside you_.”

“Then so begins the Last Battle of Middle-Earth,” Thorin whispers as he turns to look out upon the battleground, eyes fierce as flint and somehow despairing, as well.

“Straight for the mountain, laddie,” Gimli whispers as he brings his axes to bear. “Do not falter, Nazgûl-Slayer. Bring them down.”

“For Théoden and Éomer,” Éowyn whispers.

“For Boromir, and Denethor, and Aragorn Elessar,” Faramir says as half-prayer and half-deadly promise.

“For Galadriel and Gandalf and Elrond,” Legolas says in a fierce voice that both soars like an eagle’s cry and thunders like a summer storm.

“For Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, drawing Orcrist from its sheath and lifting it towards the battle.

And then the war cries of four peoples shatter the air of Mordor.

_“Forth Eorlingas!”_

_“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”_

_“Gurth enin goth!”_

_“For Gondor!”_

The orcs turn to see the last members of Bilbo’s Resistance slam into them, before the battle dissolves into the chaos and confusion of war.

Thorin is instantly beset, the foul creatures falling upon him, and despite Orcrist’s sharp edge and how she sings through the bodies of the enemy, they are too many, the Ring calling them like wolves to prey. He stumbles, and an orc with a blade already stained with dwarf blood lunges, the weapon slicing deep into Thorin’s shield arm. He hisses in pain and leaps away, Orcrist cleaving its head from its body, but another swiftly takes its foul comrade’s place and the army of Sauron seems unending, the darkness rising up around the small clusters of resistance and steadily wearing their last fighters down with inexorable force of numbers. . .

Thorin staggers back, Orcrist slowly falling to his side and almost slipping from his hands altogether as the orcs close in for the kill, despair choking his throat as the vision of a dying Hobbit swims before his eyes. The Ring shouts in triumph –

– and its cry changes just as swiftly into a scream of frustration as a massive war hammer strikes down the orc about to kill Thorin, Dáin Ironfoot turning to his next foe as the blade clatters from Thorin’s hands and the Ringbearer sinks to his knees.

“Thorin!” Dáin cries out as he drops to his knees before the king, grasping Thorin’s shoulders tightly. “Cousin, get to your feet! We have a war yet to fight before this day is done! The Ring isn’t going to spontaneously combust, you know!”

“What does it matter?” Thorin whispers in dark despair, his eyes flickering over the battlefield as Éowyn goes down to a horde of orc-axes, a scream of fury upon her lips as she claims her final kill. “We will die. We will all die, and then what is there to fight for? All is but dust and ashes, and how shall this day end if not in fire?”

“That is the Ring speaking,” Dáin says fiercely as he hoists Thorin to his feet. “Thorin Oakenshield would never speak such folly! Aye, this day shall end in fire, but in the fire of Mount Doom as Sauron falls to us mere mortals whom he thought could never best a Maia! We are _Khazad_ , laddie! We will fight to the damned bitter end, and we consider that a proper way to die!” His voice drops so he hisses the next words, low and fierce. “We will end him. You, my _King_ , will march that damned Ring up to the fire and _end him_.”

Thorin lifts his head, feeling the old war-flame rush over him as it had not since that awful day when five armies had battled for supremacy upon the slopes of Erebor. “Aye,” he grits out. “ _Aye_.”

Dáin shoves Orcrist into his hands and lifts his war hammer. “ _For the glory of Mahal_ ,” he says fiercely in Khuzdul. “ _Baruk Khazâd!_ ”

“ _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ ” Thorin roars, spinning and charging for the doorway upon the steep slopes of Mount Doom, Dáin only a pace behind as they both slash their way through the orcs in their path.

“Go, Thorin!” Dáin thunders as he bursts ahead of Thorin to bring down the orc reinforcements charging towards the Ringbearer. “ _Bring him down!_ ”

Thorin settles his shoulders back and brings Orcrist up to aim solidly at his foes as he batters through the orcs with the speed and power of a charging, fully-armoured dwarf of Durin’s Line, shattering his way past and ever onward towards the mountain.

An otherworldly scream echoes through the battlefield, the Nazgûl screeching as they swoop down towards their prey. A terrifying smile splits Thorin’s features as he spots the fell creatures coming in towards him.

Now, they will learn why he is called Nazgûl-Slayer.

The technique for fighting the elite soldiers of Sauron was developed by a long, lethal process of trial-and-error. Every soldier they were able to spare has been trained in the art, though it is a dangerous process that requires incredible speed and precise aim to manage. Even the Elves still have difficulty managing it.

But Thorin is the only one to truly master the art, with enough skill and precision that not one of the fell creatures ever survives long within his sight.

Thorin draws in a breath before releasing a terrible scream that causes the Nazgûl’s fell beasts, with their sensitive hearing, to scream and thrash in pain. A dagger loosed from the dwarf’s hand slices straight through one of the vital wing tendons, effectively crippling the beast and bringing it tumbling from the sky.

Thorin leaps from the beast’s shoulders, swinging Orcrist in a deadly arc that slices straight through both beast and rider, though only temporarily. Landing on his feet with a grunt, he flings his shield upward to hit another of the disoriented beasts upon the head before bowing his head and charging directly for the gate.

He is within a few paces of the entrance when one of the Nazgûl swoops low behind him, the beast’s talons tearing into his back and slicing upwards. Thorin cries out in pain and staggers, almost falling, before he feels the fragile chain around his neck breaking and the golden circle of the Ring beginning to fall. . .

He shouts in fear and grasps for it, his hand closing around the golden band as his feet settle beneath him, the entrance to the mountain looming before him –

_(He is so **close** )_

And then the Witch-King of Angmar is screaming in terrible delight as his beast grasps Thorin in its claws and tears him from the ground, swiftly rising as Orcrist slips from his bloodied hand.

Thorin bares his teeth in defiant fury but the damned Wraith merely chuckles softly and raises his sword before bringing it piercing into his chest and puncturing the finely-wrought armour.

Below them, Thorin spots a flash of flame, feeling the heat brushing his face as the Nazgûl rears back in shock, but before he can do anything Thorin is already flinging the Ring downwards, the little gold band plunging swiftly towards its doom.

The Nazgûl shrieks in both rage and terrified command, shoving the sword deep into Thorin’s chest, and as his vision begins to fade he sees one of the Nazgûl swipe the Ring from the air.

Thorin tries to scream _No!_ but his own blood chokes him as he sees Gimli and Legolas and Dáin fall on the battlefield far, far below –

And then the sword pierces his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

_Third Age, 2959_

Thorin staggers as he falls into reality, striking the ground hard with his knees and shaking with fear and adrenaline as he retches, bile stinging his throat and tears coming to his eyes at the memory of his _failure_ , at seeing every one of those loyal to him falling the hordes of Mordor.

Suddenly, the sorrow shifts into cold fury at his captors, his fists bunching at his sides as he clenches his jaw in rage. 

“Sauron, you pestilent Maia _Nadorhuan_ – ” Thorin starts furiously, shoving himself to his feet and freezing, his words dying in his throat as he confronts, not a sneering darkness, but a sky of arching starlight, glittering in a cloudless sky unmarred by fire or the scars of war.

“Impossible,” Thorin murmurs faintly, slowly sinking to his knees and staring up at the endless starlight, so impossibly peaceful, and how can this _be_ , how can this _exist_ after everything that’s happened – he _watched_ Ori march into the fires of the orc army to buy them time for the refugees to escape safely, he watched as Óin’s makeshift hospital was hit with a screaming fireball loaded into one of the enemy’s trebuchets, saw the entirety of the Shire _alight with flame_ , remembers seeing Merry and Pippin defending him side-by-side as Thorin lay semi-conscious from an orc-axe to his side, remembers with perfect, terrible clarity Pippin choking for breath, his cousin still and cold behind him, remembers staggering outside to see the few survivors and the seemingly-endless wasteland of ash that Bilbo’s home had become – 

And Thorin grasps his hair with both hands as he sobs brokenly into the grass, choking on his sorrow as the pain feels like it might tear him apart from the inside, or maybe it already has and he just hasn’t noticed yet – 

It takes too long, much too long, but finally the flood of tears stops and he’s slowly sitting up and climbing to his feet, still trembling and unsteady but finally stable for the first time in his life since Erebor, and not even the most recent calamity to occur in those emerald halls but probably since _Smaug_ and the overtaking of the mountain, and that’s a little depressing to think about, that he hasn’t been truly _anchored_ since he was – what? Scarcely more than a dwarfling, really.

And that is an entirely too sobering line of thought, so Thorin firmly shuts it down with the resolute determination that comes of having to keep a Ring from his thoughts constantly in order to keep the damned thing _out of his bloody head, thank you very much_ , and then he realizes: _The Ring!_

Thorin searches beneath his collar for the all-too-familiar necklace, but his hand finds nothing but his own skin, smooth and unmarred by the links cutting into his skin, and then he starts casting about himself helplessly before coming to the unavoidable conclusion that he doesn’t have the Ring with him, in fact all hints of the past sixty years have disappeared without a trace – as a matter of fact, he’s attired almost identically as he was during the Quest – _The Quest. . ._

Thorin’s eyes snap to the sky above, and thanks to the ever-present smoke obscuring the stars during the war, it’s been a terribly long time since he’s had to judge dates or times by the positions of the stars, but he hasn’t forgotten the art of it, and in a moment his eyes have fixated on the damning proof writ in the sky itself: it is the year of their Quest, and if Thorin’s reading the dates right, it’s the day (well, night, technically) that he met Bilbo for the very first time.

His heart leaps rather joyfully in his chest as he is abruptly reminded of his _burglar_ , a terribly sappy grin rising to his lips but it’s been _so long_ since he’s had the opportunity for genuine happiness.

And then the memory of their first meeting finally surfaces fully, and he winces both inwardly and outwardly at. . . well. 

_He looks more of a grocer than a burglar._

Hm. Perhaps he might make an effort to be a bit more, well, polite, and not so much like he’s impersonating a cat rubbed the wrong way and. . . hm.

_Bit harsh with him, weren’t you?_ Thorin notes internally, before proceeding to be mightily offended and snapping at himself, _Shut. Up._

Perhaps cutting down on the talking to himself might be in order, as well.

Oh, to hell with it. Madness is a Durin family trait and all, not his fault.

_Must be all the inbreeding,_ his inner Dwalin? Glóin? _(no, definitely Gimli)_ remarks, and then he is suddenly impressively offended at _himself_ , for the second time in less than a minute, and _what is going on with his mind._

“Am I just trying to compensate for suddenly not having the Ring in my head?” Thorin says aloud, and then proceeds to make a valiant effort to stare at himself in shocked horror. 

“Wonderful. I am now talking to myself _out loud_ ,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “Huzzah. Shall I throw a party, I suppose, in honor of having finally gone completely bonkers, and invite all of my inner voices along, have a nice get-together?” That was rather impressively sarcastic, if he does say so himself.

_Better invite Bilbo, too, he loves parties,_ a voice says in his head and he feels as if he may just tear his own hair out in frustration.

“ _By Mahal’s beard and forge and incredibly tattered purple underpants, will you **shut up**_ – I don’t remember that being there.”

Thorin stands in the middle of the road, hands on hips, looking back and forth and actually, _nothing_ looks familiar, just where in Durin’s name _is_ he?

“Oh, that’s right, I got lost,” Thorin says, shuddering as he recalls _that_ horrendous episode, and he will _not_ be repeating that again, thank you kindly. 

_New Durin’s Day resolution,_ he says, thankfully internally this time, as he breaks into a brisk jog, _remember the awesome power of maps and consult them at every opportunity._

_It’s not Durin’s Day ye –_

_Shut up!_

Fortunately, his mental dialogue is cut off by the familiar sight of Bag End before him, green door marked with Gandalf’s rune looming out of the darkness, and Thorin is struck by the memories of a thousand nights spent here with the other leaders of Bilbo’s Resistance, meticulously plotting and scanning and devising a thousand different ways to break Sauron’s hold over Middle-earth – 

Before Sauron discovered the exact location of the headquarters of his elusive opponents, and the Shire had burned and Bag End right along with it.

Thorin shakes his head to clear such dark memories from it as he slowly opens the gate, trying not to let it squeak and announce his arrival prematurely. One thing is for certain: he will not allow the Shadow to fall over the Shire again. Not this time. That is one promise he will not forsake, gold sickness be damned.

He sighs as he walks up the steps, before a sudden sound startles him and he reaches back to grasp Orcrist’s slender hilt, only to have his hand close around a distinctly dwarven sword.

Ah. That’s right. He doesn’t have Orcrist yet.

(And that is a situation he is trying admirably to pretend does not send him into something approaching panic.)

Thorin breathes in and out deeply, and as he steps closer to the door he recognizes the sound which startled him so badly as being the shouted chorus to some kind of dwarven drinking song. He finds himself chuckling a little darkly at that as he gently knocks on the door, only to find that it swings open upon the first touch of his knuckles to the wood, apparently left unlocked after the sudden deluge of unexpected dwarf houseguests. Thorin carefully eases the door open, trying to stop his hands from trembling; after all, this is technically his first meeting with his dearest Bilbo, one should try to be careful and all – 

_Please, the only way you could **possibly** mess this up would be if you outright attacked him,_ Dís says with an undercurrent of actual concern beneath her veneer of mockery. 

_Given the last few weeks, that’s exactly reassuring –_

He cuts himself off once again as he steps into the hallway, neatly hanging his coat and weapons up with scarcely a second’s thought before moving to stand in the archway leading to the kitchen area, leaning against the curved wall and folding his arms as he watches the elaborate little dance taking up the entire kitchen and surrounding hall. 

The entirety of the Company, including Balin (though he is only participating with the long-suffering air of one who cannot escape the younglings’ antics and must endure with good grace), are singing what sounds to Thorin like a fairly common drinking song altered for the presence of their host, the vast majority tossing around plates and various cutlery items, but he does spot Óin utterly engrossed in playing a teapot (and to his shock, actually managing to sustain a rather nice little tune). 

Another Thorin might have scolded his Company for this, but the Thorin who stands here now finds himself having to blink back tears, for he remembers how solemn this Company became, how each and every one of them fell to Sauron’s power, and he remembers being willing to give anything to see them happy and carefree and _smiling_

“That’s my grandmother’s Westfarthing pottery – it’s over a hundred years old!” he hears a voice protest, and at that Thorin feels all the air escape from his lungs as he stares at the back of his sweet _Bilbo_ , alive and unscarred, either physically or mentally, and Thorin should be doing _something_ but all he can do is stare at Bilbo like a lovestruck puppy.

_He’s going to turn around, you idiot, and he’ll **see** you – in three, two, one. . . _

“Oh, hello.”

Thorin stares at him.

Clearly, either his memory must be shoddy or this is a different universe he’s found himself in, because he’s certain Bilbo never had eyes such a deep shade of brown, caught between chocolate and coffee, or dusty brown-gold curls that bounced so happily around his face. Surely not.

Damn. Hopelessly, hopelessly in love. His inner Dwalin is probably caught between scandalized and exasperatedly pleased. 

“Hello.”

Very majestic.

“And who might you be?” Bilbo says, smiling at him, and if it’s a little tired Thorin doesn’t notice, because he’s simply so utterly delighted to know Bilbo is _alive_ that he cannot bring himself to care about anything else, really.

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, at your service,” he says, bowing politely, and Bilbo flushes a little.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he says, attempting to copy Thorin’s courtly demeanour and accidentally bowing too low and almost falling over before Thorin reaches out and steadies him.

And in that moment, as Bilbo mutters an embarrassed “Thank you,” Thorin knows exactly what he has to do, and the knowledge of it tastes like ashes in his mouth. 

“I’m afraid you’re a little late, there’s not much food left, really,” Bilbo stammers, blushing brighter red as he admits to such a terrible Hobbit crime, “but I’m sure I could find you something, though it’s certainly not up to what I would prefer to serve a houseguest - ” 

“No, it’s fine, Master Baggins,” Thorin says gently. “I do not mind; at the moment I’m not particularly hungry.”

Frankly, he doubts if he can ever find the ability to be hungry again, after the last sixty years, but that is not important now.

“So, erm, what’s this all about?” Bilbo says awkwardly, wringing his hands. “All Gandalf said was something to do with an adventure, and a _really_ confusing discussion about the meaning of ‘good morning’, and then you showed up and I’m frankly quite lost, really.”

“Gandalf tends to do that,” Thorin reassures him, “you simply have to learn the trick to ignoring the more nonsensical things he says.” He draws in a deep sigh, mentally bracing himself to discuss the repeated catastrophe that is Erebor. “And as for the reason why we’re here: do you mind heading into the living room to discuss this?”

“Oh, no, no, no, that’s perfectly fine by me,” Bilbo says, and then he’s leading the way into the den and they’re settling into the two facing armchairs by the fire that Thorin remembers from many difficult discussions with various high-ranking personages of Middle-earth, except then it was always the other party in the less-used armchair and Thorin who reclined in the well-loved armchair that he always thought of as _Bilbo’s._

But then Bilbo is looking expectantly at him and Thorin takes a deep breath and casts aside those memories to focus on his recollections of Erebor in his youth. 

“There was a dwarven kingdom, far beyond the Misty Mountains,” he begins, quiet and reverent, “ruled by my grandfather, Thrór. Beneath the slopes of the Lonely Mountain there rose a great dwarven city of emerald stone and golden light, where all dwarrow were welcome and all shared in the great wealth of the mountain. We mined from the darkest depths shining jewels in every shade imaginable, gold, shining silver – all the wealth that could be imagined, and the great smiths of the dwarrow shaped it into treasures of such vast worth and beauty that kings would fight over the smallest trinket from our halls.”

“And then?” Bilbo interjects when Thorin has remained silent for some time. 

“And then,” the dwarf king whispers, heart heavy with sorrow and longing, “the dragon came. Smaug the Terrible.” Bilbo sucks in a breath in horror, for even the peaceful Shire fears the fire-drakes. 

“We fought, but it came to nothing. We asked, we _begged_ for help, but our allies turned away from us.” And that part is simple fact, no matter how much Náin of the Iron Hills or Thranduil of Mirkwood might try to deny it. There was a treaty that said all who signed it would have to come to the aid of the attacked, no matter the identity of the attackers. Thorin may understand _now_ why both of them turned away, but that does not erase the fact that they broke their oaths that day.

“Finally, I managed to lead them to an abandoned settlement in Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, and my people managed to survive, but that place was abandoned for a reason.” Thorin sighed deeply and turned to look into the fire. “The mines are almost exhausted. Every little ingot of iron pulled from the stone exacts a payment worth its weight in blood. I take work where I can find it, blacksmithing in the villages of men, but it isn’t enough. Every year, fewer children are born. Every year, more die. The people of Erebor are fading. If I do not reclaim Erebor, and soon, we may simply die out altogether.

“Some people think this quest is about gold or gemstones, but it is not. Erebor… her true wealth was not in gold. It was in the smiles upon the faces of my kin, the laughter in their eyes. It was in the fact that our engineers continually faced the difficulty of hewing yet more additions to the city from the stone. Erebor was a place where we could know we _belonged_. It was _home_.” 

Thorin squeezes his eyes tightly shut as his voice breaks on the final word, trying and failing to stop himself from remembering Erebor’s final fall, trying to shut out the _screams_ as the Mountain collapsed around them – 

“Here.”

At the gentle voice, Thorin looks up, pulled from the past to see Bilbo offering him a pocket-handkerchief with sympathy in his soft brown eyes.

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” Thorin whispers, swiping at his eyes with the small white cloth, and Bilbo tsks at him as he moves to sit back down.

“None of that ‘Master Baggins’ nonsense,” he says with light censure. “Just plain Bilbo is enough for this Hobbit, thank you very much!”

“Very well, then,” Thorin says, and he feels his face curving into a smile. “Bilbo.”

“Do you think your Quest will succeed?” Bilbo asks after a time, and Thorin clenches his fist around the handkerchief and looks away. 

“I do not know,” he says slowly. “I had hoped for more of my kin to join with me, but they will not risk the wrath of a dragon, for good reason. And now I face a long and difficult road with thirteen companions with a fire-drake waiting at the end of it. Do I truly believe this Quest is likely to succeed?” and he shakes his head. “No. But I have no choice.” Thorin smiles ever so slightly as he looks towards the dining room where his Company cheerfully dances to a merry tune. “And they are loyal, honorable, and determined, every one of them. I called upon them and they answered. For that, I am ever in their debt. Thirteen, willing and ready to face whatever fate I might lead them towards, are far more welcome than an army from the Iron Hills that does not believe in the path they tread nor the one that leads them upon it.”

“Not thirteen.”

Thorin turns to look at Bilbo, head tilted to one side in confusion and slowly dawning horror.

“What do you – ”

“Not thirteen,” Bilbo says with a determined set to his features. “Fourteen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nadorhuan_ is an elvish word meaning "cowardly dog," which in my personal headcanon Thorin learned from Arwen during the War of the Ring.


	3. Chapter 3

They rejoin the rest of the Company when the song is over, the lights dimmed to cast an air of solemnity to the room.

“Might I have a contract, please?” Bilbo asks as he settles himself beside Thorin, who is still cursing himself for a fool.

 _Brilliant plan, that,_ says his inner Balin with a wry twist to his words as the real Balin hands Bilbo the neatly folded contract. _Mentioning all that about the children and the plight of your people and what Erebor truly means to you. And to think that was meant to discourage him. Wonderful plan, Thorin._

 _Oh, be quiet,_ Thorin snaps back as Bilbo, with barely a pause over “incineration” signs the contract with a flourish and hands it back to Balin, who briefly looks it over before nodding and tucking it away into a pocket.

Yes, this is Thorin’s Bilbo all right, foolish Took “leap-before-you-think” tendencies and all.

Curse him.

“How went the meeting?” Glóin asks, leaning forward. “Did they come?”

Thorin sighs and nods. “Envoys from all seven kingdoms. But none will join our Company.”

“And why not?” Dwalin demands angrily, the rest of the Company not far behind. “What reason did those cowards give to break their sworn oaths to defend the King of Durin’s Folk?”

Thorin sends his shield-brother a quelling glare. “Erebor’s fall affected all dwarrow, not merely her inhabitants. Without the fortress of the Lonely Mountain to depend upon, the other kingdoms are failing; perhaps not as obviously as we, but they too are losing their status in the eyes of both men and elves. The dwarrow have never been welcomed – now, even the false overtures of warmth have faded. We are not alone in our plight, not a single dwarf. That is why they cannot come.”

Thorin remembers that meeting in the Iron Hills all too well. He had believed it was only Ered Luin that faded away, that all other members of their race prospered and flourished, refusing to send assistance simply because of their own greed. Seeing the thin faces, all too familiar from the halls beneath the Blue Mountains, had been a rude awakening that, in the wake of Erebor’s fall, no dwarf kingdom as far above simple survival. His quarrel with Dáin after learning of the other’s disappearance had merely sealed it. And had only increased the need for him to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.

As Thorin looks up from the table to see the sudden guilt in Dwalin’s face, he sighs deeply and wants to bury his face in his hands. He is unused to times when continual darkness and shadow is not the normal way of life, when speaking so bluntly about death and sorrow is not considered ordinary. But none of the people gathered about this table are used to it, and Thorin will not unnecessarily burden their lives with his own memories. Better that the last sixty years be allowed to slumber silently in his soul rather than darken the smiles of his kin.

“I did not know. . .”

Thorin sighs once more and murmurs, “Nor did I, until I saw for myself. Dwalin, we could not have known. We cannot be blamed for things we had no control over.”

Dwalin does not appear particularly happy about it, but he nods and settles back into his chair.

“Aren’t you all forgetting something?” Nori interjects suddenly, and Thorin hides his startlement. The thief leans back and folds his arms, looking at the rest of the Company like they are a pack of fools. “The doors into Erebor are sealed. Dead dragon or no dead dragon, it does not matter if we are stuck outside the Mountain.”

“I have something I believe might help with that,” Gandalf says suddenly, holding out a small iron key to Thorin.

A _very familiar_ iron key.

“There’s another way into the Mountain!” Kíli exclaims happily, but Thorin ignores him completely in favor of glaring at the Wizard as he makes a connection he _most assuredly_ should have made the first time around.

“Pray tell, Tharkûn, just how long have you been keeping Thráin’s key from me and why _exactly_ did you not give it to me in Bree?” Thorin demands harshly, and he hears Óin say something that sounds like “don’t antagonize the wizard, Thorin” but the dwarf king ignores him.

“I received it from Thráin in Dol Guldur, some time ago, and as to why I did give it to you sooner, those reasons shall remain my own,” Gandalf says, and he sounds cheerful but there is a slight glint in his eye which quite clearly says that Thorin would do best to let the matter drop.

Except Gandalf’s careful evasiveness is simply making Thorin’s natural level of suspicion, already fairly high after the Ring and everything else to do with a certain traitorous Maia, ratchet up even further. And now Thorin is wondering how in the name of Mahal Gandalf managed to miss the fact that the _abandoned_ fortress had at least one prisoner in it, which clearly meant that _somebody_ was using it, making it rather un-abandoned, no?

“And now I find myself wondering if you ever actually _intended_ to give me the key at all,” Thorin says in a voice of ice, still not moving from his relaxed position.

Gandalf glares at him furiously, beginning to take on that _look_ of his when he wants to make a certain point very clear and is willing to use a little of his abilities as one of the Istari to make sure that whoever he is speaking to gets the message properly.

And Thorin is quite ready and willing to have a mild confrontation with Gandalf – it wouldn’t be the first time, and Gandalf is genuinely good rather than Sauron, who is wholeheartedly evil, and thus quarreling with Gandalf would not come anywhere close to that disastrous confrontation the day Erebor was destroyed – before a terrible thought occurs to him: _Sauron obscured all of the evil within Dol Guldur, which means that for Gandalf to find Thráin, Sauron must have **deliberately** dropped the cloaking spell. Which means he **wants** us to go to Erebor. He **wants** this Quest to continue, because he must have seen his Ring be taken from the creature Gollum and into a place where he might claim it. And, in the end, he did._

Thorin somehow manages to keep all of that from showing upon his face, firmly locking away the horror of his sudden realization behind a mask of certainty.

But some flicker of his suspicion must have shown in his eyes, for Gandalf sighs tiredly and says, “I cannot begrudge you for being cautious, Thorin son of Thráin, for what you have seen in your life would make the kindest and most trusting heart wary.”

 _You have absolutely no idea_ , Thorin thinks as he nods wearily, reaching out to accept the key from Gandalf, meeting the Wizard’s sorrowful blue eyes as Gandalf looks upon him with a sorrow almost like how Thorin himself looked upon Ori those last few months, a hardened warrior who put aside his knitting in favor of endless practice with his mace and sword.

But he has forgotten how deep the Wizard’s eyes are, gentle but holding an Age of regret in their depths –

_Blue eyes that whisper apology as Gandalf recalls the battle against the Balrog deep within Khazad-dûm, looking ancient beyond words as he tells of Durin’s Bane almost pushed back by the combined force of the White Council before Saruman revealed his treachery and attacked with a savagery only to be found within the hearts of the servants of darkness, how the White Wizard turned upon Gandalf first and had him killed, how Elrond tried to defend him but was brought down, even Narya useless against the fury of one of the Istari. Galadriel leaping to his defense but even as she brought Saruman down the blazing whip descended and snuffed out her light forever. Radagast finally arriving from his failed battle to shield Mirkwood from Sauron’s wrath, too late and too weak to do anything but pull Gandalf from the wreckage of Khazad-dûm and flee to Erebor._

_And then, a few months later, the Balrog arriving upon the slopes of Erebor, the Nazgûl soaring around it and an army stretching to the horizon beyond it, the city of Dale burning once again despite everything the defenders do, evacuees streaming from both cities in a desperate attempt to escape the doom Sauron promised to Thorin for his defiance. The last two Istari bringing down Durin’s Bane in a final blaze of glory that took their own lives, but not before Erebor had been utterly destroyed._

Thorin clenches his fist around the key he still holds in his hand, forcing his gaze away lest Gandalf glimpse the memories of the past (future) in Thorin’s eyes.

 _It will not happen again,_ Dwalin promises fiercely within Thorin’s mind. _It will not. We can stop it. And we will. We will._

“Do you know the location of this secret entrance, Gandalf?” Thorin asks to avoid the Wizard’s questioning eyes, carefully not looking at any member of the Company but instead staring down at the ragged map upon the table, as if he is trying to divine his secrets.

Or anything except trying keep the memories of the past from crippling his ability to fight. He is the only one here who knows what is coming, he cannot be lost to this darkness now. And he will not allow any one of the Company assembled here to die. Even if it should cost him his own life.

_(And he will not think of the Ring’s whispering trying, every single **day** , to pull him away from his friends and allies, will not think of its darkness coiling at the back of his mind, **waiting** , or else he will be sick or scream and neither one will help them now)_

“– but there are others on Middle-earth who can,” Gandalf is saying as he finally manages to pull himself back to the present.

“Are they far from here?” Dwalin asks, leaning forward onto the table and fixing Gandalf with a long stare. “We have little time to spare.”

“Winter is falling fast,” Balin reminds them, eyes solemn to match the darkness in the room. “Soon, the Misty Mountains will be snowed in. And should we manage to make it through the pass, there will remain the long road to Erebor yet. Should we be forced to turn back, others may manage to reach the mountain before us.”

“And steal the vast wealth and greatest works of our people,” Glóin says darkly.

Ori shoves himself to his feet, saying a voice flooded with determination, “Not whilst we still live and fight. We may have lost Khazad-dûm, but we will not lose Erebor!”

Thorin closes his eyes against the flash of pain, only heightened as he hears Dori’s “Sit down,” remembering all too well the silver-haired weaver cradling his littlest brother’s body close to him as he sobbed in the ashes of the Shire.

“We’re fighters,” Fíli says suddenly. “All of us, to the last dwarf!”

“Erebor belongs to us,” Kíli says fervently, pride in his voice as Thorin finally looks up to see his nephews standing tall, side-by-side now as they have always been. “The dwarrow have lost more than we can name, but we stand strong because we will _fight_ for our people and our homelands with our last and every breath.”

Thorin stands, and then all eyes are upon him as he looks around the table at the fourteen before him, who all gave their lives for the chance to save others, so that someday, there might be the laughter of those who had never known hardship or war resounding through the stone halls and lifting to clear skies high above.

“The road to our homeland will be long,” he says, and there is the slightest flicker of something that is not quite fear in their eyes, before it is drowned in their resolve. “Long, and dark, and fraught with peril that will seek ever to claim the lives of the children of the West. But we will fight, and we have in our hearts the courage to emerge victorious from the shadows.” He paused and looked around the table, meeting every one of their eyes carefully. “When I look upon those gathered here, I do not see the forgotten sorrows of a lost and dying people. I do not see weakness and softness and cowardice.” He draws in a breath, a thousand memories of pain and death flashing across his eyes, but he can see in every battle, in every breath drawn in defiance of a shadow that had brought Istari low, an honor and resolve and courage that only dark times ever bore witness to. “I see warriors who will fight to the end for what they believe in. I see courage, strength, honor, determination. I can ask no more than that.” He bows his head, closing his eyes against the sorrow. “And if you will follow me, I will do my best to lead you to our homeland. To the hall of our fathers.”

Silence falls, and then the clearing of a single throat breaks it, and Thorin looks up to see Bilbo standing beside him, back straight and eyes determined.

“I would be honored,” the Hobbit whispers, and Thorin can feel his heart breaking all over again even as Bilbo’s gentle smile floods his soul with warmth, “to follow you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“And so would we,” Dwalin says, coming to his feet to bow his head in fealty to Thorin. “Unto death and the very breaking of the world.”

Thorin tries to speak but he finds he cannot, the loyalty shining in his Company’s eyes stealing all breath from him.

_“You are loved, Thorin son of Thráin,” Galadriel whispers as she kneels beside Thorin, a gentle hand coming to rest upon his head and somehow driving the darkness back. “Never doubt that, no matter what the Ring you bear may tell you. You are respected, and honored, and beloved. Even when the darkness feels as if it will overwhelm you, and all hope has failed.”_

_The cries of the last of the Free Peoples rising in defiance all around him as he charges into the army before Mount Doom, Sauron’s eye upon them but never piercing their hearts as they throw themselves into the fray to defend the last Ringbearer. A tale of defiance, spun through sixty years of war, that he knows was what truly gave him the strength to take those last few steps towards the mountain, to still try to cast the Ring into the flames even as the Witch-King’s sword pierced his heart._

“ _Far over the misty mountains cold,_ ” a voice begins suddenly, and all eyes turn to Ori, who stands with eyes shining with hope, and though his voice wavers at their sudden regard he sustains the notes to the end of the line.

“ _To dungeons deep and caverns old,_ ” Kíli joins next, and then Fíli, before one by one the entire company is singing the song composed in the wilderness after Erebor’s fall, both lament for their lost home and hope for its reclamation.

“ _We must away ere break of day_ ,” Thorin sings, voice soft and breaking as he remembers this night, so many years ago, and all that came in between.

“ _To find our long-forgotten gold_.”

_“The pines were roaring on the height,_   
_The winds were moaning in the night_   
_The fire was red, it flaming spread_   
_The trees like torches blazed with light.”_


	4. Chapter 4

_Grimly hanging on to life as Mount Doom erupts in a shower of blazing fury more terrible than any dragon – what he always imagined Erebor’s death throes as – and striking the foes all around him with his great war-hammer, the armies of the last of the Free Peoples lying besieged all around him._

_An elf flings himself into the path of an orc-axe slashing down towards his heart, and he spares a brief whisper of a prayer as he flings himself into the fray once more, ignoring the blood and ash that coats the air and chokes his breathing, because he has no other option, no other choice beyond this fight and the fierce, desperate hope that burns like fire in his breast, and he feels like he’s drowning in the dust of Mordor._

_But he will not give in to this despair that threatens to bring his hammer clattering to the ground, because he knows Thorin is somewhere above, waiting for the right moment, the golden Ring hanging upon its chain at his throat, and he knows that if anyone can win this, Thorin can._

_And as if his thoughts have summoned his cousin to the battle, he hears Thorin screaming the ancient Khuzdul battle cry and he can see the Ringbearer charging into the fray, his sword blazing-blue held aloft as if to pierce the sky itself, and he thinks that if Thorin could see himself in this moment, then the king would understand in a moment how they all followed him without hesitation, how they would throw themselves into the fire with their final breaths for his sake._

_Thorin’s armour is stained and ragged, his face streaked with grime and horribly pale beneath it, but his eyes are bright and fearless and despite the fact that the very sight of the Ring makes him almost physically ill, Thorin practically blazes with defiance and stubborn determination, fighting to the end and beyond to save his people._

_And as he shoves Thorin to his feet, presses Orcrist back into his hands, he feels like collapsing in the dust and never waking again, but then Thorin is straightening, tall and proud and unbowed even in the heart of their Enemy’s power even though he wears Sauron’s talisman above his heart._

_But then, he supposes as he watches Thorin run past him to the gates, watches him bring down the Nazgûl with the ferocious savagery of righteous vengeance, Thorin’s heart belongs to another, and his cousin has never been one to forsake his promises._

_He slips on the mud made slick with blood, his iron prosthetic weighing him down as it never has before, but then a hand on his arm steadies him as he hears a Khuzdul battle cry, and as he blinks back the spots of white obscuring his vision, he sees Gimli barely holding his own against an army as his One, Legolas Thranduilion, steadies the last dwarf of the Iron Hills._

_The battlefield is now nothing more than a teeming mass of orcs, the last four of the Free Peoples upon this field somewhere, either standing beside him or running desperately to fling the Enemy’s prize into the fires of unmaking._

_Gimli is pressed back, his axe dancing in his hands but unable to keep the army back. He straightens and takes up his war-hammer once more, Durin-blue eyes scanning the field before them._

_“We will not leave this place alive,” Legolas prophecies grimly, and he straightens, defiance somehow rising up within him once more, defiance and a proud, desperate hope._

_“No,” he agrees as Gimli rejoins them, panting and axe coated in black blood. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t give them a fight. We have to keep Thorin’s path clear.”_

_“For Thorin II Ringbearer!” Gimli screams, and then they three are charging forward, weapons clashing with showers of sparks in the burning night, orc after orc falling to their blades before he is thrown back, cruel laughter ringing in his ears as he manages to get his feet under him one last time._

_Legolas lies upon his right, blonde hair streaked with blood but a smile of triumph upon his lips, and to his left Gimli lies twisted on his side, neck broken grotesquely but the hand not holding his axe reaching even in death for the hand of his One._

_Dáin lifts his head slowly, a fierce smile rising to his lips as he swings the hammer around himself in three tight arcs before halting it and clenching both hands tightly around the staff._

_“You want me?” he snarls as the orcs tense to spring. “Come and get me.”_

_Then his hammer is moving, the enemies falling all around him but not enough, for he is a powerful warrior yet but he is also weighed down by grief and pain and loss and horribly, horribly outnumbered._

_But as the blows of the orcs begin to make it through his guard, he does not fall but stands, mighty and unfailing in the blood and fire of Mordor._

_So passes Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, in defense of his king with a wild, savage hope blazing endlessly in his heart and triumph in blue eyes as the shadow comes to claim him._

* * *

Dáin lets out a wild yell and leaps from his bed, stumbling over the absence of his metal foot and falling hard to the floor.

“Father!”

The shout is startled and suffused with fear, but it is not what gives him pause – rather, it is the voice, a voice he knows just as well as his own, the voice of his only child writ upon his soul.

A hand, smooth and unscarred by anything more serious than training and clumsiness, touches his cheek, and then Dáin looks up to meet the worried blue eyes of his son, Thorin III, too young for an epithet such as Dáin’s cousin bears.

He remembers how Thorin earned his by-name, in the fight where Dáin lost two cousins in body and the third in spirit.

And he remembers, too, how Thorin looked lying bloody and still with an arrow through his heart as Erebor burned behind them and the Ringbearer screamed and raved in the madness of grief.

Dáin brings his hand up to his son’s smooth face, running his fingers through the neat braids, even at this hour, and Thorin’s eyes narrow in confusion and worry as he watches his father’s strange behavior.

“Father. . . ?”

It’s then that Dáin realizes he’s crying, because there is only one reason why he would be here, now, with his son unaware of all the years that have passed for him.

_We failed._

The thought is a stab to the heart, and then a wave of crushing guilt sweeps over him, because he was _there_ , he _saw_ Thorin shattering apart under the loss of his beloved and the weight of all he was forced to bear, and he should _never_ have expected so much of Thorin, should never have expected his cousin to have to take the weight of destroying the Ring alone.

Dáin shoves himself away, awkwardly scooting himself along the floor until he sits with his back to the bed, tears pouring down his cheeks as he sobs out all the pain of the past sixty years.

He does not know how long he sits there helplessly, but suddenly a sudden, desperate hope strikes him through the shadow, and his head jerks up as he feels a smile upon his lips, a true smile of a sort he thought he would never have the chance to wear again.

Because he is here, alive, and before the Quest, before Erebor was reclaimed, before the Ring was found and everything went so _spectacularly_ to hell. And he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Thorin was in his place, then he would do everything in his power to keep the situation from escalating.

And so it is up to him, in Thorin’s stead, to take up this burden and see it safely destroyed.

(And with a little luck, he will be able to save Thorin’s kin and One and spare him from the shadows of all that came after Erebor.)

He smiles reassuringly at his frightened son, and beckons him close. “Come here, my little warrior, and help your father with his foot, would you?”

Thorin reaches down to pick up the prosthetic and bring it over to him, and as Dáin carefully secures the straps in place he leans over worriedly and says, “Father, what is wrong? You were. . . crying. . .”

As his son trails off, Dáin reaches up and enfolds the strong, brave lad in a hug. “I pray to Mahal that you will never have to learn what has happened to me,” he says as he brushes Thorin’s hair from his eyes. “My bright-eyed warrior.”

Thorin tilts his head to the side, but Dáin is already standing and moving to the door, flinging it open and bellowing, “Hár!” as he shoves his flesh-and-bone foot into a boot and begins buckling on his armour.

His Guard Captain comes into the room instantly, coming to stern attention with barely a raised eyebrow at the sight of his lord in sleep clothes with half-buckled armour.

“Aye, Dáin?” Hár says, but his question is nearly drowned out by Thorin’s worried, “Father, where are you planning to go?”

Dáin smiles over at his boy as he picks up a heavy traveling cloak and flings it about his shoulders. “To help a cousin in desperate need, and hopefully save Middle-earth in the process.” Before either of them can formulate a response, Dáin says with a formal cadence to his words, “Thorin, I leave you in command of the Iron Hills in my absence. Hár, you are to assist him in any way you can, and I want you to, immediately after Durin’s Day, assemble an army ready to march to the defense of Erebor. A _large_ army, mind you.”

Hár looks as if he is about to protest, but Thorin once again beats him to it. “An army? To march to the defense of _Erebor_? None shall enter that mountain while Smaug still lives, father, and you know it!” When Dáin does not respond, he lunges forward and grips his father’s arm tightly, preventing him from moving. “I know you feel guilty for denying Thorin Oakenshield aid in his quest, father, but that guilt is not worth your _life!_ ”

Dáin sighs heavily as he clasps his son’s hands in his. “It is not like that, Thorin. I wish with all my heart I could explain, but I have not the time now.” A sad smile quirks his lips as he looks upon the visage of his only son. “Trust your absurd father once more, all right, my little warrior?”

Thorin sighs but his eyes are fond as he wraps Dáin in a hug. “I love you, papa,” he says into the metal armour upon Dáin’s shoulders, and the dwarf lord finds himself blinking back tears.

“I love you too.” He gently steps out of the embrace and pats his son’s cheek. “Stay safe, feed my pig, and I promise I’ll return, understood?”

“You had better,” Thorin says warningly, and he looks so like a younger version of Dáin’s cousin in that moment, which only impresses upon him the necessity of leaving, immediately.

In a few short minutes he is upon ponyback, war-hammer in hand as he heads for the great bulk of the Misty Mountains looming up on the horizon. It will be a long, hard ride to make it to those mountains in time to find the Ring in the tunnels and keep his cousin’s self-sacrificing arse alive long enough to be crowned within Erebor.

_Hang on, Thorin. I’m coming._

* * *

Legolas shifts on his bedding, feeling the cloth slide over him like silk, and surprisingly, he feels no pain, despite the horribly vivid memory of taking an orc broadsword through his back.

Where had Thorin and Dáin managed to find herbs to heal such a grievous wound, he wonders idly as he stretches languidly, savoring the luxury of being able to awaken slowly, in his own time, rather than having to be up and battling an orc battalion within moments of waking.

He blinks his eyes open, and the light blinds him momentarily, but not before he catches a glimpse of red hair from a figure leaning over him.

“Gimli?” he asks, his heart already leaping with joy and hope, that his fierce dwarven beloved managed to survive the dread battle before Mount Doom –

“Gimli?” a voice echoes in confusion, and he immediately jerks upright, eyes snapping open to see –

 _Tauriel_ , who survived the Battle of the Five Armies but died defending Thorin from the Witch-King not long after, and he finds himself staring in surprise and shock.

But slowly the light becomes less blinding after the endless night of the last years of war against Sauron, and he realizes that he lies inside the barracks of Mirkwood’s guards, and now that he puts his mind to it he can even recall a vicious fight with his father over his bunking with the rest of the defenders.

His _father_ –

And now Legolas finds himself feeling a sudden surge of trepidation, because he never actually saw his father again after the entire catastrophe of the battle, not even while the forest burned beneath the scourging whip of the Balrog.

And not only will he have to keep the past sixty years secret from his father for some time, he will also have to explain to him about Gimli – Durin’s beard, _Gimli_ –

He breathes a faint sigh of relief at the knowledge that his beloved dwarven warrior was not allowed to go on the Quest and will still be safe within the Blue Mountains, but then he feels a wave of grief choking his throat as he realizes he will have to somehow earn his beloved’s love all over again.

Legolas squares his shoulders stubbornly. He will face that when it comes, and if he must then he will set himself to earning Gimli’s love once more. Compared to the pain of losing him to the fires of Mordor, even this is better.

He suddenly realizes Tauriel is still watching him, silently awaiting an explanation for his startled awakening.

“I. . . had a strange dream this night,” he says, and it is incredibly difficult to get the right air of ethereal detachment into his voice after living so long with mortals, whose lives burn so bright and fierce and inexorably drag him along with them. “Some premonition of the future, I believe.”

Which, the Gimli part of him notes, is not entirely a lie.

“His Majesty will want to hear of it,” she informs him, a simple statement of fact as she heads off towards the training grounds, spinning a dagger offhandedly in her right hand.

Sweet Mahal, but she is good at that. . . leaving someone an impossible decision to mull over and endlessly agonize over. . . thing.

And he must ensure that he does not use dwarven oaths aloud, and _especially_ not where his father can hear.

Legolas draws in a deep breath and gets to his feet, neatly buckling on weapons as he heads off towards one of the lookout towers over the forest.

It is, unfortunately, exactly as blighted and sick as he recalls it being, the fortress of Dol Guldur hovering upon the horizon and it is all he can do to keep from leaping over the balcony and darting off into the forest to confront the traitorous Maia that lurks in its shadow.

So _many_ died through those years, and it still astonishes him that he could have stood beside Gimli and Dáin and had those two and Thorin be the last members of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. It seems impossible, looking out at the life that blossoms all around him.

He clenches his hands around the railing and swears upon his life and spirit that he will not allow it to happen again. He will not allow a darkness so thick and vast that it blots out all traces of the sun to settle upon Middle-earth now. He forbids it.

Once again, Legolas feels the burning, desperate desire to leap into the trees, the need to have his blades in his hands, feel them cutting through orc flesh, but he stills himself once more. He does not know where the Company is now, and he will do far better for their resistance if he can but wait for the Company to make their way into Mirkwood, for he knows they had the Ring with them then. And then. . . he will decide what comes then when he has the chance to properly weigh the situation.

Legolas draws a deep breath into his chest once more, eyes fixed with a burning hatred upon Dol Guldur as he remembers the screams of his people ringing in his ears as they fell beneath the Balrog’s wrath.

“I will end you,” he vows, feeling the rage like a living thing blazing in his heart, and he thinks that now he understands what drove Thorin’s Company on through the shadows of Mirkwood, all those years ago.

“I will end you,” he repeats fervently. “No matter if it costs me my life, or the lives of my kin, but I swear upon my love for Gimli that I will _end you_.”

* * *

Sauron feels a prodding upon his mind, a worried pressure from one of the still-weak wraiths, and he wearily brings himself to awakening, and feels himself startle in not-inconsiderable surprise as his awareness feathers outwards and he realizes he dwells once more within the ruins of Dol Guldur.

He cautiously stretches his mind wider, feeling Mirkwood around him, the spiders clicking as they slip into the trees to spin their silken webs, and at the very edge of his awareness, the Balrog asleep beneath Moria and the dragon within Erebor in much the same condition.

It would appear as if he has been sent back in time.

Hmm. Interesting.

That begs the all-important question of why Morgoth should feel the need to send him back in time in the first place (after all, he feels as if he did rather well: he annihilated the defiant population of Arda, after all, and without involving the Valar, on top of that) but as he considers his recent victory, he thinks he finds the answer.

And, not unsurprisingly, it has everything to do with _Oakenshield_.

Now he understands Azog’s pet obsession far too well, and only _after_ the Pale Orc had managed to get himself killed at the hands of his dread enemy.

Not this time. He will not lose his greatest commander to that miserable dwarf whelp ever again. The price he paid for _that_ was far too high.

Even as he thinks of it, Sauron shudders at the memory of Oakenshield flinging the Ring towards the flame below him even as Angmar plunged his sword into the dwarf’s heart. If the other Nazgûl had been positioned only slightly differently, he would be dead by now.

He snarls quietly in rage as he thinks of that dwarven fool managing to kill _him_ , Sauron, greatest of the Maiar.

And then a fell grin splits his face, or the face he would have had if that cursed _Isildur_ had not destroyed his physical body.

Oh yes. He knows _exactly_ how to deal with Oakenshield.

If the whisperings of his Ring could not break him, then perhaps family _will_.

“Bring forth the prisoner,” he snarls, and the wraiths immediately bow and stalk from his presence, cloaks whipping around them like broken wings.

In mere moments, they have returned, a frail dwarf held between them. Exhausted and in agony from torture though he is, the dwarf still struggles admirably against his captors. Clearly, it was from his father that Oakenshield received his defiance.

The Nazgûl cast the dwarf to the ground, and he hisses in pain as he lands but in a moment he is already shoving himself to his feet.

“Thráin, son of Thrór, I have a bargain for you,” Sauron says, and Thráin scoffs loudly and spits out blood towards the dark spirit hovering before him.

“I want no part of any bargain with darkness,” Thráin snaps, and from the fierce look in his eyes Sauron knows there is no chance he will be convinced.

Unfortunately for him, Sauron knows more ways than mere _words_ to bring others over to his service.

“It was not a request,” he snarls, and then Thráin falls to the ground, spasming in agony as Sauron invades his mind.

It takes a great deal of power, too much, for Sauron to lock away the memories of love and loss and bind the dwarf to his service, but as he sees the body of Thráin (for the mind is trapped now and will remain that way so long as Sauron exists) rise to his feet before him, he knows that this is a weapon of worth beyond measure.

“You will take my wraiths and a group of Warg-riders to reinforce Azog’s company. You will tell him that my Ring is in their keeping and he must take it from them at any cost. And remember, my servant: _you_ are now my single greatest weapon against Oakenshield. You will not reveal yourself until the agreed time.”

As Thráin nods, as his newest servant is garbed in the armour of his battalions and leads the Wargs and Nazgûl into the wilderness, heading for the abandoned fortress of Weathertop, Sauron’s laughter echoes through Dol Guldur.

His father’s presence, fighting against his own son, will break Oakenshield. And then the renowned Nazgûl-slayer shall fall to the Ringwraiths and Middle-earth will tremble at Sauron’s triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun DUN.
> 
> Shout out to goodbye_for_now who inspired the idea of having people other than Thorin and Sauron come back in time (which has now become so central to this fic that I wonder what in Durin's name I was planning before that).  
> Note about updates: my schedule seems to consist of a long(-ish) hiatus period on a fic, before I proceed to go completely overboard with these updates all at once. That being said, do not be worried if I don't update for months on end (upset is fine, just not worried). I'm far too emotionally invested in this thing to abandon it now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Translation:  
>  _melhekhel_ : king of all kings

_Stone cracks and splits beneath the force of the immortal beings battling upon the slopes of Erebor, the entire mountain shuddering beneath the force of the Balrog’s wrath._

_Thorin bellows orders to the warriors upon the upper battlements, dwarven arrows soaring from the sky and piercing the charging army behind the three Maiar dueling upon the mountainside. From behind, the soldiers of Dale lunge forward, impossibly managing to shove themselves up through the haze of exhaustion from the day-long battle, fury reigniting in their hearts and sending them charging into the jaws of death for the chance to bring life to the others who remained within the besieged city._

_“How long until the Lady Evenstar arrives with reinforcements?” Thorin demands as Dáin comes clattering down the stairs, his heavy siege armour weighing him down._

_“Not long,” his cousin says, and then Bofur is bursting onto the battlements, covered with dust and panting for breath._

_“Thorin, the Balrog’s destabilized a fault line running through the entire bloody mountain! If that thing doesn’t go down in a hurry we’re looking at a real risk of bringing down the entire mountain!”_

_Thorin’s breath catches in his throat as he exchanges a terrified look with Dáin and Dwalin._

_“Sound an evacuation,” he orders, shoving past the soldiers arrayed atop the battlements and heading for the lower stairs._

_“Thorin!” Dwalin protests instantly, lunging forward to grasp Thorin’s shoulder and turn him around to meet his shield-brother’s eyes._

_Thorin opens his mouth to give a rejoinder, but then Dwalin’s other hand moves to rest against the back of his neck, undoubtedly meant in a gesture of comfort, but his fingers brush the edges of the Ring’s chain and it is all Thorin can do not to fling himself upon his closest friend with sword drawn, a litany of_ no, don’t touch it, it’s **mine** _resounding through his skull –_

_And then he blinks and the fell shadow that so briefly overhung his mind is receding, the face of his malicious enemy dissolving back into the concerned eyes of Dwalin, and he can taste bile in his throat as the memories of that last day atop the battlements flash before his eyes –_

Burning hatred and murderous wrath, the need to fight, bloodlust humming through his skull and drowning out all rational thought –

Cruel, merciless, gauntleted hands closing around Bilbo’s arms as words of hate and foul poison fall from his lips -

Fear in his beloved’s eyes as he holds him out over the endless abyss, the Hobbit’s words of pleading desperation washed away by the insatiable need to _kill –_

_“Thorin!”_

_Thorin gasps and pulls himself away, the memories of that winter day years ago disappearing before his eyes as the sound of continued combat seeps back into his perception, the cold fury leaving behind a sense of detached horror and a trembling in his hands as his breathing stutters in his throat –_

_Strong, reassuring hands capture his, Dwalin carefully unwrapping his hands from where they are convulsively stroking the Ring, and Thorin doesn’t have time to react to the loss of the gold band’s steadiness before Dwalin is gripping his hands tightly enough to bruise, the weak reassurance of the Ring’s whisperings insubstantial before the solid warmth of his friend and brother._

_Thorin closes his eyes tightly, swallowing hard, and then he says in a voice that wavers despite all he can do to calm it, “We cannot leave the well-being of our people to chance. Get them out of the mountain as fast as possible; Dáin, you and your son will lead a force to defend them as they escape.”_

_“That won’t be enough,” Dáin points out instantly. “We won’t have enough to defend the orcs, they’ll see us coming from miles away and then we’ll have forsaken our greatest defenses.”_

_Thorin opens his eyes and tries his best to straighten into a determined stance, despite his shakiness and the soft murmuring of the Ring, coiling seductively at the back of his mind –_

_“And that is why I’ll be leading the rest of the army to the defense of the men, to draw attacks away,” he says, and his heartfelt determination silences the whispering in his head briefly, and for a moment he believes that they might manage to get through this –_

_“And how will you manage_ that _, Oakenshield?” a voice suddenly snarls, a roar of shadow and fury as the quiet voice in his mind changes into a howl of wrath, and a sensation like fire whites out his consciousness for a long moment._

_Then there is a hand on his shoulder, clenched with bruising force, and a voice more familiar than his own in his ear, and Thorin forces open his eyes to see Dwalin’s face mere inches from his own, blocking out the specter of Sauron that hovers before the gates of Erebor._

_“It is not I alone who shall do it,” Thorin says defiantly, and his voice is raw and hoarse in his ears. “I do not stand alone. I have never stood alone. My kin, my people, my allies – every one of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth stands in opposition and defiance against you, Sauron the Betrayer. As long as any one of us survives, you will never reign supreme – ”_

_And then Thorin’s words are cut off in a choked scream as Sauron lashes out at his mind through the Ring Thorin wears about his neck, and he feels his legs failing beneath him, hands shaking as he writhes in agony._

_“You need not feel this pain, Thorin son of Thráin,” Sauron says, and now his voice is back to the same tone of gentle persuasion Thorin knows so well, even as the burning fire remains constant in Thorin’s mind. “Join me, and I will spare your people and your precious kin. I will heal these wounds upon your soul, I will reawaken your kin and beloved, make it so they and you never need fear death again, never need feel pain. All you must do is give me the Ring.”_

_And Thorin knows it is a lie, knows that none of Sauron’s promises can be trusted, but the thought of his_ Bilbo _, happy and alive and at his side for all time, almost breaks him, almost has him reaching out to lift the Ring from around his neck and toss it to the specter hovering before him –_

_But then he feels Dwalin holding him steady, his back to the greatest evil yet extant in Middle-earth yet refusing to turn and endanger Thorin, sees Dáin and Bofur and every defender that can be spared clustered around him, weapons raised and ready against the shadow even though they can do absolutely nothing to stop him, and that gives him enough strength to force his next words out through a throat made raw with screaming._

_“Never,” he gasps out, lifting his eyes to stare directly into the shadow before him, and though the word is almost immediately followed by a lash of blazing pain, he doesn’t stop speaking. “I will never join you, you murderer, traitor to all that our people hold dear. I would rather die.”_

_“So die, foolish child, and know your folly as your world falls!” Sauron roars, and then Thorin collapses as a wash of excruciating pain tears its way through his mind, leaving him gasping and shaking with pain as darkness overtakes his vision, the voices all around him disappearing into the haze of pain and growing despair that hangs across his mind._

_The battlements suddenly rumble beneath him, tremors running through the stone and only growing quieter, not fading out completely as the entire mountain quakes beneath them._

_Thorin’s consciousness threatens to slip through his grasp as he tries to open his eyes, the Ring’s weight about his throat feeling suddenly suffocating, and he feels as if he drowns in darkness, silent shadows rising up to torment him before they fade away as if they never existed, leaving only the dark and the screams behind._

_Clashes of metal and shouts of command sound all around him, the roar of the Balrog cutting through the battle like a sword, but he hears only through a fog, unable to move as the dark presses down upon him, silencing him._

_A gentle hand trails across his brow as he feels himself lowered to the stone below, brushing his hair out of his eyes, even that small touch sending sparks of pain through him. As if in a fever dream, he sees Dwalin looking at him with a deep concern in his eyes, before turning and sending Grasper and Keeper tearing through the goblin mercenaries scaling the walls._

_The mountain rumbles beneath them once more, and Dwalin snarls in fury and spins around to shout orders at another, and then a horn-blast signaling the evacuation splits the air –_

_And then suddenly, as if detached from himself, Thorin sees the army below lifting their heads, orcs sniffing the air in anticipation and he knows that the force that will stand to hold off the orcs will not be returning._

_At that thought, despair threatens to send him into unconsciousness entirely, but the spirit of sheer bloody-minded determination that has fueled him all this time refuses to give up now and he knows that if he can just stand and fight the orcs will not dare harm him, for he must be taken before Sauron alive and untouched so that the Dark Lord can freely exact his vile tortures, and if he can just hold his ground for a few moments, just for long enough to get the evacuees away –_

_But the darkness has sunk its claws deep into his mind and refuses to let go, dragging him down towards unconsciousness even as the rest of him screams that his people **need him** –_

_“Thorin!”_

_His eyes snap open at the cry, taking in the small Hobbit kneeling before him with no small degree of shock, for he knows for a fact that Bilbo is dead, his body cold and decaying beneath the mountain, but the warm hands on his face are entirely too real._

_“Thorin, you have to wake up,” Bilbo says, eyes soft and reassuring, but a core of mithril running through them, unyielding and inexorable as the dawn._

_“Thorin, **wake up**.”_

_Thorin gasps and coughs as he breaks free of the shadows overhanging him, hands steadying him as he convulses, the Ring trying one last time to take control before it sinks back down into silence waiting at the back of his mind._

_“Help me up,” Thorin whispers faintly, and then the other is carefully lifting him to his feet, and he opens his eyes to see Ori’s kind eyes before him instead of the gentle brown of his Hobbit burglar’s, and tries to ignore the faint stab of disappointment at the knowledge that Bilbo was not there, that Bilbo still lies dead within his tomb._

_Thorin shrugs away the other’s hands and tries to stand straight, but despite his best efforts he still sway on his feet and the screams and crashes of battle sound too loud and fierce in his ears, a headache pressing upon his skull and throbbing behind his eyes._

_“Dáin, take half of the army and follow the refugees,” Thorin orders, and then all eyes are suddenly upon him. “Hurry, we haven’t much time – ”_

_“Indeed we don’t,” Dwalin says grimly, and then he is turning to Dáin and saying, “Take Thorin and get him out of here, with all haste.”_

_“You don’t even need to ask,” Dáin says instantly, grasping Thorin’s arm and starting to lead him away but Thorin shrugs his cousin off and takes a few steps towards Dwalin._

_“No, I have to stay here, I have to draw them off,” Thorin starts, but his shield-brother cuts him off._

_“You’re exhausted and injured, Thorin,” he says gently, one hand coming to rest upon Thorin’s shoulder. “I cannot endanger you that way, Thorin. Go with Dáin, I’ll meet you on the shores of the Lake once this battle’s done – ”_

_“No, you don’t understand,” Thorin pleads desperately, and he can feel the tears upon his cheeks but he can no longer bring himself to care. “If you stay here, you will die, Dwalin, you will **die** and I cannot lose you.”_

_Dwalin’s eyes soften and then his brother is drawing him into a fierce embrace, clinging desperately to him with the same fiery desperation that fills Thorin’s heart, and when the warrior pulls back there are tears in his eyes. “Then I will be proud to die in your defense, melhekhel. Get him out of here!” he bellows, and then there are hands dragging Thorin away as another blast of a horn sounds and Dwalin charges down into the mass of orcs seething at the base of the mountain, an army all around him, almost shining with proud, fierce defiance._

_Thorin fights against the dwarrow holding him back, unaware of their identities; his breath catches in his throat, but words spill from his lips anyway, fragmented and disjointed as he breaths in panicky gasps, “No, Dwalin, don’t **please don’t** – not now, not after all that’s happened – I – can’t lose – you – ”_

_And then the orcs are upon them, the others releasing him to spin around to face their enemies, and he hears Ori letting out a shout of fury and Dáin bellowing out the ancient Khuzdul battle cry as he falls upon their enemies like a dragon, but all Thorin knows is the stench of blood all around him, their people dying at his feet, Orcrist’s shining blue blade slicing through her foes mercilessly, but it’s not enough, **never enough** and he can still see the dwarrow dying all around them._

_The Balrog roars upon the slopes of Erebor, but then a flash of white light makes it scream in pain, and despite the slight victory the tide of orcs doesn’t let up, and Thorin’s vision is blurring and doubling, Orcrist horribly heavy in his hands, and he knows he won’t last much longer, knows that if it were not for Sauron’s orders to take him alive he would already be dead._

_The mountain rumbles again, this time a continued note of strain that strikes unbridled terror into the hearts of the dwarrow, for the evacuation is nowhere close to complete, there are still **thousands** of their people trapped within the mountain –_

_But the Ring hums in his mind with a dark promise, and then, somehow, Thorin finds his eyes inexorably drawn to the small group of fighters standing before the gates of Erebor, the Ring enhancing his vision until the small figure at the front becomes Dwalin, axes dancing in his hands as he kills orc after orc, seemingly unable to feel exhaustion or pain –_

_And then Thorin sees the huge cave-troll looming out of the Balrog’s shadow, and he sees the mouth of one of the other dwarrow open in a shout of warning, but it’s far too late and despite Dwalin’s tremendous skill he has been fighting since before the dawn and he cannot move in time –_

_Thorin thinks he can hear the crunch of bone as the mace slams into Dwalin, sending his brother and trusted warrior flying to strike the side of the mountain and lie still, blood trickling from his head to mingle with the crimson already staining the ground._

_Thorin doesn’t hear his scream as Dwalin goes down, doesn’t feel Orcrist clattering from his hands to strike the stone beneath his feet, and he never sees the orc archer looming on his left, drawing his longbow back with an arrow aimed directly at Thorin’s heart –_

_And suddenly something crashes into him, sending him sprawling on the ground, and he hears a brief, choked cry but doesn’t move, the Ring keeping him trapped in his dark despair._

_A voice screaming in heartbroken desperation, “ **Thorin!** ” jerks him out of his despair, and he shoves himself up wearily, mouth already opening to reply, “I’m all right,” before his eyes land upon the body at his feet and the words die in his throat._

_Dáin drops to his knees, a faint keening wail beginning to rise from his throat as he cradles the young Thorin Stronghelm close, the boy’s blue eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky and for a moment Thorin sees the bodies of Fíli and Kíli lying silent upon the ice at Ravenhill, still and cold and breathless –_

_An orc rises behind his mourning cousin, arrow drawn and aimed straight at Dáin’s heart, and then Thorin is there, Orcrist buried to the hilt in its chest, and as it chokes out a last rattling breath Thorin staggers back, Orcrist singing in his hands, promising vengeance._

_Thorin spins around to face the approaching army, his hands still shaking but his eyes cold and hard and pitiless as Orcrist slices through her foes with a viciousness he cannot hold back, despite how he fears it is the Ring murmuring death in his mind._

_And then a crack resounds across the land, and every eye upon the battlefield snaps up to behold Gandalf the Grey, who is grey no longer but rather blazing like a star, leveling a blast of power at the Balrog, and the former servant of Morgoth howls in pain before the fire in its eyes goes dark and it collapses._

_The ground shakes beneath his feet, and then Thorin’s eyes move towards the trembling Erebor, and he can feel but does not see the shadows moving towards here, and then a cruel laugh echoes in his ears, mocking and dark, and Thorin shakes his head faintly in horror._

_“No,” he whispers, feeling the roar of flame upon his skin as the Ring’s dark claws curl around his heart. “No, no, please Mahal, no!”_

_“Thorin, what – ?” someone says, Ori or Óin or possibly Bombur, and then Thorin is screaming, “Get down!” and flinging himself over Dáin and his son’s body in a desperate attempt to shield the last of his close kin –_

_And then Erebor **explodes** , a crack of thunder as the ancient volcano at her heart reignites, the cascade of stone and fire swallowing up any who yet remain close to her._

_Thorin feels the heat upon his flesh, but it is as nothing compared to the pain that feels as if it will tear his heart asunder, because an overwhelming majority of Erebor’s population was **still in there** , not to mention Bifur and Bofur and Glóin as they tried to shore up the halls long enough to complete the evacuation, and he can hear the screams echoing in his mind, the Ring making the cries that were swallowed up when the mountain ignited clear and all-encompassing, drowning out all else._

_He feels himself try to stand and move away from Dáin, only to stumble on the uneven ground beneath him as his eyes are drawn to the blazing mountain, the image burning itself into his memory._

_The orcs try to rise up towards them but are cut down by slender, beautifully crafted arrows as an elven battle-horn echoes across the plain, sounding dim and unreal in his ears. A Sindarin battle cry splits the air as Legolas leaps from his charging warhorse to bury his twin daggers in the chest of an approaching orc, followed by a roar of “Du bekar!” as Gimli lunges forward, axe spinning around himself in a shining arc._

_Thorin feels Orcrist moving to cut down an enemy seeking out Legolas’ back, feels himself blocking a mace strike and shoving Ori out of the way of a descending war flail, but the clashes of steel sound distant, as if he hears them through a fog, sees himself fighting as though his hands are not his own._

_The last of the orcs turn tail and flee, leaving the battlefield to the exhausted remnants of Erebor and their elven allies from the last of Rivendell’s army._

_A hand falls on his shoulder, and he looks up to meet the pale, ethereal blue eyes of Arwen Undómiel, her beautiful features tight with sorrow and concern. Her hand shakes him gently, lips moving silently in the syllables of his name._

Thorin. Thorin, can you hear me?

_And then suddenly sensation rushes back, too loud and too overwhelming, the hand resting lightly upon his shoulder feeling like a chain that holds him in place, the wind rushing in his ears and carrying with it the stench of sulfur and the coppery tang of blood._

_The sudden scream startles him, a rough, raw thing filled with so much pain and heartbreak and anguish, and suddenly he realizes that it is **his** , and Arwen rears back in surprise before leaning forward in concern, graceful hands brushing along his forehead as she murmurs words in Sindarin and Quenya, but Thorin doesn’t feel them, doesn’t hear her words or the soft babble of concern as the others around him almost trip over their own words in their haste to comfort._

_Thorin falls to his knees, head bowed as the screams echo in his mind, the Ring’s dark whispers taunting and ensnaring him in equal measure, catching him within his own despair. Tears trickle down his cheeks as he cries out to the sky, before finally the weight of too much grief and pain upon a mind injured in brutal psychic combat with Sauron himself crashes down on him and he blacks out._

* * *

Thorin jerks awake, barely managing to hold back the scream as the memories of the day they lost Erebor forever crash down upon his mind, his breathing catching in his throat and his hands clenching convulsively around the blanket he has twisted himself in during the night.

The feel of the neat quilting beneath his hands draws him back into the present, into the quiet, cheerful little guest room Bilbo gave to them last night. Sunlight drifts through the small rounded window, and he can hear birdsong from outside, the soft noises of predawn.

Thorin feels himself relaxing minutely, for if there is any place in all of Middle-earth that could give him some measure of peace after everything he has seen, it is this quiet valley of soft grass and bright flowers. And perhaps it is strange that Thorin, whose heart belongs forever to the emerald marble walls and bright steel of Erebor, can understand this place, can feel peace here, but he has seen the world turned to ash and knows the value of these green hills, even if he cannot sense the magic of growing things as he can feel the changes and shifts of stone.

Thorin slowly sits up, careful to be silent so as not to wake the others. On the floor lie Dwalin and Balin, both draped with the finely-crafted quilts Bilbo insisted they use, and Thorin has to stifle a laugh at the sight of the fierce Dwalin snuggled in a flowery quilt.

Thorin turns his gaze next to the second bed, where Fíli and Kíli lie next to each other, snoring softly with limbs sprawled messily across the bed and the sheets hopelessly tangled. A faint smile at the memory of the furious protest the two put up about “being coddled” drifts momentarily across his lips before being silenced by the memory of their bodies being entombed within the mountain.

Thorin bites his lip hard, shaking his head firmly to clear the memories from his mind.

_It will not happen again_ , he promises himself, the voices of Dwalin and Balin echoing the words. _It will not happen again. We will not let it. We will **not**._

Thorin carefully slides off the bed, smoothly shoving his feet into his boots and strapping on his sword (still not Orcrist, and he’s trying desperately to ignore how _wrong_ it feels not to have the familiar weight of the elven blade on his back). He’s already wearing his armour, never removes it if at all possible, no matter how uncomfortable sleeping in full armour might be.

_Legolas’ shrill warning whistle piercing his nightmares, Orcrist already sweeping from her sheath and cutting deep into the attacking orc before his eyes have even opened, the clash of blades all around him telling him that the others are already entangled with their own foes –_

Thorin shakes his head hard, the sight of their campground on the path to Mordor fading back into the quiet calm of Bag-End. He realizes suddenly that one hand is clenched around the doorknob of their guest room, tightly enough that the engraved metal has imprinted patterns onto his hand.

Thorin closes his eyes, focusing on the scent of flowers blossoming and the wood floors beneath his feet, willing his hands to halt their shaking.

But even after a long moment of standing at the door, trying to steady his uneven breathing, the screams still echo in his ears and he can _taste_ the blood on his lips, smell it in the breeze. . .

Thorin opens the door, striding out determinedly. He needs to move, to get _away_ , to feel as if he is doing _something_ or else he will break down completely and they cannot afford that now.

He is in the general vicinity of the front entryway, contemplating going outside for a walk to settle his nerves and wondering if seeing the Shire again will only make his memories worse, when the sound of something breaking echoes through the smial.

Thorin is already into the kitchen with his sword drawn before his mind can catch up, panic swiping away all conscious thinking, feeling the heat of flame licking at his face and the smoke choking his lungs and blocking his sight –

But it is only Bilbo, kneeling on the ground in the process of picking up the pieces of a small ceramic pot, head lifted and clearly surprised at the sound of his footsteps. “Hello,” he says cheerfully, and then he pauses as his eyes land on the sword in Thorin’s hand.

Thorin follows his gaze, swallowing hard at the sight of the blade in his hand, leveled steadily at Bilbo where he kneels upon the ground, and for a moment his vision shifts to show Bilbo’s fearful eyes as Thorin presses a sword against his chest, the snarled question _Where is the Arkenstone?_ hovering in the air between them.

“Sorry I startled you,” Bilbo says suddenly, jerking Thorin from his own memories, and he looks up to see Bilbo slowly standing with reassurance in his eyes. “It’s all right, though, I just dropped a bowl, nothing to worry about – are you all right?”

Thorin doesn’t hear him, trapped as he is in the memory of _cold wind, whipping about him and providing a perfect counterpoint to the fiery rage in his heart, hands closing around Bilbo and holding him out over the drop from the upper battlements –_

“Thorin?”

Thorin blinks, and then Bilbo is standing before him, a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, seeming not worried in the slightest for the deadly blade Thorin still holds in his hand.

“Are you all right?” Bilbo asks softly, and Thorin forces himself to nod.

“Forgive me, Master Baggins,” he says, sheathing the sword and gently shrugging off Bilbo’s hand. “I apologize for startling you.”

Bilbo folds his arms and gives Thorin a censuring look that makes him feel barely of age again. “Firstly, enough of that ‘Master Baggins’ nonsense, I thought we established that last night. Secondly, I startled you first, so any fright I may have experienced – _briefly_ , mind you – ” he adds when Thorin tenses at the mention of fright, “is entirely my own fault.”

For a moment, Thorin just stares at him, before saying faintly, “At the very least, accept the apology.”

“Accepted and forgiven,” Bilbo says without a trace of hesitation, “now sit down while I clean this mess up.”

“Given that I am the one wearing boots, I should be the one looking around for stray pieces of broken ceramic,” Thorin says just so he doesn’t gape at Bilbo speechlessly. _Is this how kind he might have been the first time had you merely looked past your own pride to treat him with at least politeness?_

“Given that you’re the guest and I’m the one who broke it, you should get to relax while I do all the difficult work,” Bilbo counters, kneeling down to pick up the pieces and put them on the small counter. “But honestly, _are_ you all right?” he asks after a moment, concern clear in his voice. “You seemed rather spooked when you came running in, and then you didn’t respond when I spoke to you.”

“I’m fine,” Thorin lies, looking intently at the table so as not to let himself slip back into the memories whispering quietly in his mind.

There is a long silence, and then a hand comes to rest comfortingly on his shoulder. Thorin starts in surprise, looking up to see Bilbo standing behind him, brown eyes gentle and reassuring.

“You faced a dragon,” he says softly, and shakes his head. “I can’t even imagine; seeing the Shire burning, hearing my friends and family screaming in agony as they burned, having to lead the refugees afterwards, to find food and shelter for hundreds. I cannot imagine it.”

Thorin swallows hard against the nausea rising in his throat. He does not have to imagine, for either the Shire or Erebor.

“You did it, though,” Bilbo says, his voice soft and a little awed. “You did it, somehow. I can’t think how, but you did it. And if you get startled a little too easily, if your first reaction to something unexpected is to draw a sword in defense. . . well, I think if it were me, I would be much worse off.” He sighs, absently patting Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin should not be able to sense the warmth of his hand through that many layers of clothing and armour and yet somehow he does. “So what I’m trying to say is. . . it’s alright to be frightened, or a little too battle-ready, because, you deserve a little leniency after leading your people through that. It’s okay, Thorin.”

Thorin draws in a shuddering breath, but he can already feel some of the pressing memories receding, and why is it that Bilbo’s mere presence can settle his mind more than hours of wandering and training could ever hope to?

Bilbo’s hand pats his shoulder once again, and then disappears, leaving Thorin feeling suddenly cold and strangely empty at the loss.

“Would you like some tea?” he asks, and Thorin blinks in confusion at the unexpected question.

“Tea?” he repeats blankly, and he hears Bilbo huff out a slight laugh.

“Yes, tea. It helps settle my nerves,” he elaborates when Thorin provides no response.

“I. . . suppose?” he tries, and he can almost sense the encouraging smile sent his way.

Soon, the scent of tea is wafting gently into the air as Bilbo putters around the kitchen, apparently cooking some kind of meager breakfast with whatever food the Company left behind after their raiding of the pantry.

“Here,” Bilbo says, placing a small mug of tea on the table and, somewhat at a loss, Thorin picks it up in both hands and blows on it, pretending that Bilbo’s little encouraging smile as he sets a plate of cut fruit on the table doesn’t reassure him as much as it does.

Bilbo places a plate of eggs and ham on the table before him, accompanied by a fork and knife as he settles in another chair with a similar plate.

Thorin takes a cautious sip of his tea, and is rewarded by the taste of berries mixed with a herb he cannot identify, along with a gentle warmth much like the sensation of Bilbo’s hand on his shoulder, comforting and steadying.

Bilbo nudges him with a muttered, “Eat before it gets cold,” around the egg in his mouth and Thorin picks up the utensils with determination, fighting back the rising nausea at the mere _thought_ of eating.

“No need to glare at it like it’s an orc you’re about to gut,” Bilbo says with amusement in his voice (rather than fear), and Thorin looks up and gives him a cheerful grin he doesn’t feel.

“Something you must know about me, Bilbo Baggins: I do _everything_ with this level of determination,” he says, making his voice sound amused rather than miserable and despairing.

“I’m sure,” Bilbo volleys back, sounding very wry indeed, and that somehow manages to startle a laugh from him.

“You’re cheerful this morning,” Balin observes, walking into the kitchen and then halting when he spots the food on the table. “None for us?” he says mournfully, and he sounds positively _wheedling_.

“You,” Bilbo says, wagging his fork at him chidingly, “ate almost all the food in my pantry. I don’t cook breakfast for pantry-defilers.”

Thorin nearly chokes on his tea.

* * *

“Thorin?”

Thorin starts at the voice, turning and blinking at Balin’s sudden closeness behind him, and then staring blankly at the woods behind them and the sky tinged scarlet with the setting sun.

“Are you all right?” Balin says in concern, and Thorin swiftly redirects his focus to the other dwarf staring at him with worry in his eyes. “You’ve been distant all day.”

“I’m fine,” Thorin says automatically, and Balin fixes him with a gimlet stare that Thorin barely manages not to fidget beneath.

Finally, Balin turns away with a sigh and a brief pat on his shoulder that leaves Thorin staring in mild confusion after him. After a long moment, he manages to relocate himself to the same rock he rested on the last time they were in the area, staring up at the slowly-darkening sky and letting the normal noises of setting up camp wash over him, the reassuring silence of the forest around him letting him – not _relax_ , exactly – but calm, the residual fright from the nightmare fading away into his memories.

He knows it’s coming, but he _still_ almost leaps out of his skin when the first Warg howl splits the air. Across the camp, Bilbo jumps and then spins around to move swiftly towards him, fear writ in his too-wide eyes. “What was _that?_ ” he hisses urgently, and Thorin opens his mouth to respond but then Kíli cuts him off.

“Orcs,” he says succinctly, the perfect picture of calm as he sharpens his sword. “There’ll be dozens of them out there.”

“They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep,” Fíli picks up the conversation. “Quick and quiet, no screams – ”

“And what, _exactly_ , is so amusing about a surprise _orc attack_?” Thorin snarls furiously, aware that his nightmare has made him harsh and unduly cruel but if the Thorin who went on this adventure last time could barely bear listening to them, then _this_ Thorin is mere moments away from breaking into a wild rage.

Fíli and Kíli instantly go silent, aware they’ve stepped over some kind of line.

“We meant nothing by it – ” Fíli starts, but Thorin overrides him.

“No, you didn’t,” he hisses, and he knows he shouldn’t be this vicious but the sight of Fíli’s eyes open and unseeing in death hovers before his eyes and he cannot force it away no matter how often he blinks. “You have no idea of what can happen in the world, when only the fire holds the wolves at bay and the orcs hunger for your blood. You have _no idea_ – ” and then he cuts himself off and leaps to his feet, stalking away to stand by the ponies at the cliff’s edge, his hands shaking once again and his breath catching in his throat.

He wants to turn back and apologize, and knows he probably _should_ , but he cannot look at any of them now, because their deaths dance before his vision and he feels the familiar nausea creeping its way back into his throat.

“Do not take his words to heart, laddie,” he dimly hears Balin saying. “Thorin speaks out of fear for you, not out of anger.”

“I just want to please him,” Fíli says, his voice small, and Thorin feels his heart clench but he doesn’t move.

“I know you do,” Balin tells him softly. “He doesn’t mean what he says.” He hears the old warrior sigh. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs, and more cause to fear the loss of those he loves to them.”

Thorin can barely hold back the bitter laugh, for Balin truly has no idea how truly he strikes with those words.

He hears Balin launching into the tale of the Battle of Azanulbizar, but, unlike last time, no hallucinations of battle appear before his eyes, only the expanse of darkness beyond the edge of the cliff. Azanulbizar haunts him still, but as one horrific battle among many, not a unique occurrence.

And it is truly sad that _Azanulbizar_ has been equaled and bested in the competition of the most horrifying battle he has been in.

* * *

By the time they make camp again the next night, Thorin is having to fight not to stumble over his own feet, exhausted from not sleeping the previous night for fear of nightmares and from holding the memories at bay the entire day.

He settles himself to the ground, watching tiredly as Fíli and Kíli perform every task set out for them without complaint, and when the rabbits they have skinned and gutted are roasting over the fire under Bombur’s capable hands, the two shoot a hopeful glance at him, and sag in relief when he sends them a reassuring smile.

Thorin lets his head fall back against the tree trunk he has settled himself against, eating the stew placed in his hands mechanically, silent save for a few quiet orders giving out the watches for the night, and once the others have all fallen asleep he stares deeply into the expanse of stars high above, ignoring the flames casting flickering light over the camp and clenching his fists tightly enough to ache in a futile attempt to keep himself awake.

A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his half-doze, and he turns his head to see Bilbo leaning over him in concern.

“I’m fine,” he says to the question on the Hobbit’s lips, and Bilbo snorts as he comes to sit next to Thorin.

“Forgive me, Thorin, but that is a lie and you know it,” he says sternly, and Thorin looks away rather than face him.

“I apologize,” he tries, and Bilbo makes an irritated noise.

“I’m not trying to make you say sorry like you’re a fauntling stealing from the cookie jar,” he says, and then he is leaning himself against Thorin’s side and the dwarf tries to hide how his breathing accelerates at the sudden contact.

“Look at me, Thorin,” Bilbo says suddenly, and Thorin turns his blue eyes to meet the Hobbit’s brown ones, and he is taken aback at the depth of warmth and concern in his eyes, from someone he technically only met three days ago.

“I’m trying to tell you that I _understand_ , or at least sympathize,” he says with a bit of a sigh, and then lets his head rest against Thorin’s shoulder as he stares up at the sky. “I wish I knew how to help,” he murmurs, so quietly Thorin almost doesn’t hear it.

Thorin sighs and let his eyes drift closed. “You help me just by being with me,” he whispers, and then he feels a sudden surge of panic that he has been too forward, and has opened his mouth to try and take the words back somehow when –

“Then I’ll stay,” Bilbo says, as if it’s that simple, and proceeds to tuck himself up against Thorin and drift off to sleep.

Thorin stares at his slumbering burglar in shock, and almost unconsciously his hand comes down onto Bilbo’s hair, stroking the fine curls until his eyes drift closed.

And when he blinks himself awake the next morning, having slept more peacefully than he has in what seems like forever, the first sight that greets his eyes is that of Bilbo stretching in the golden sunrise with a huge yawn before catching sight of the mess he’s made of Thorin’s surcoat and proceeding to fuss over the fur, and the smile that stretches across his lips is almost unconscious; it feels as if he is peering into another world, one where none of them died in the Battle of the Five Armies and Sauron was vanquished without destroying all of Middle-earth in the process, and maybe, just maybe, Thorin can make that other world a reality.


	6. Chapter 6

Thorin draws in a deep breath, resting his head back against the half-destroyed wall of the farmhouse, as his eyes track Bilbo where he stands beside Bombur, assisting with the cooking with a faint smile upon his lips. He closes his eyes, watching the small, nervous smile as Bilbo holds out a small acorn with a nervous smile, hope brimming faintly in his eyes before being relentlessly quashed as Thorin turns away from him to follow Dwalin to the upper battlements, the gold-sickness once again holding sway over his mind.

_“Do not cry, dearest Thorin,” the hobbit whispers as his hand reaches up to brush away the tears on Thorin’s cheeks, and then his hand drops away as he coughs on the blood within his lungs._

_Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand in his, pressing the bloodied knuckles to his lips and kissing them, horribly, achingly gently; after the battlements, he is terribly aware of the strength in his dwarven muscles and the damage that he can do simply by not being careful._

_(And he cannot bear to cause Bilbo any more pain. Not now.)_

_“Don’t leave me,” he pleads desperately. “Bilbo, my beloved, **please**. Do not leave me…”_

_Bilbo’s lips quirk upwards, a faint spark of love in his beautiful brown eyes. “I’m sorry, my king,” he says, and there is an aching sorrow in the -words. “My beloved, my dearest Thorin. I’m so sorry…”_

_Thorin draws in a shuddering breath, and the knowledge that he might be the one fighting for the breath to utter his final words burns like acid on his tongue. “Bilbo…”_

_“Take this,” Bilbo says, and he raises his hand to reveal a small golden ring cupped in his palm. “It saved us, all this time. Maybe it can save you again, once I’m gone.”_

_“Bilbo, no – ”_

_Bilbo coughs once more, bright scarlet blood trickling from the sides of his mouth, and he murmurs with the soft weakness of the dying, “I loved you since the day we met, you know?”_

_And Thorin **knows** there is more, because Bilbo’s clouded eyes are locked on his, a desperate urgency blazing there, but the life is sliding away from him and try as he might, Bilbo cannot force the next words past his lips._

_Bilbo’s eyes slide away to rest on the horizon beyond, and a single last breath rattles in his chest before he goes finally silent._

_For a long, terrible moment, Thorin can do nothing but stare down at Bilbo’s empty eyes and still body, blinking and shaking his head as if somehow, he might **wake up**_

_But this is no dream, this is **real** and Thorin knows he should be screaming or sobbing but all he can do is mechanically lower Bilbo’s body to the ground –_

_(no, not Bilbo, not Bilbo too, no **please** no)_

_– and slowly he stands, that horrible numb feeling permeating his entire body accompanied by a sudden hollowness in his heart and a rising nausea at the back of his throat._

_He drops Bilbo’s ring into his pocket almost automatically, not truly thinking about it even though he’d like to throw the damned thing as far away from him as possible because it **didn’t help** , not when it was most needed –_

_(except he can’t just throw it away, because it was Bilbo’s **last gift** )_

_And then his head rises and meets Azog’s vengeful eyes and malicious smile and the sorrow and hollowness transmutes suddenly into a burning rage that surprises even Thorin with its vehemence, and all he knows is that Azog is suddenly moving back, something that is almost **fear** in his cold eyes._

_Orcrist flashes in Thorin’s hand, the faint singing of the elven blade a war-chant in his mind that drowns out everything else, and then Azog is falling back beneath Thorin’s mad assault and he knows this ferocity is unlike him, but any protestations are drowned beneath the throbbing agony of **Bilbo is dead**_

_“Thorin, stop!”_

_And then strong arms are wrapping around him from behind, grasping his arms and pinning them behind him to keep him from attacking but Thorin still struggles futilely against the hold, and in the back of his mind he is aware he is screaming incoherently in anguish but he can do nothing about it._

_“Thorin!”_

_This time, he recognizes the voice as Dwalin, recognizes the strong arms holding him back as those of his shield-brother, and he suddenly is sagging against his hold, the exhaustion of days of sleep deprivation whilst under the thrall of the gold-madness suddenly catching up to him all at once._

_Dwalin carefully guides him down to the ice, and on the edges of his vision he can see Azog’s bloody corpse and the orcs shifting restlessly around them._

_“Thorin. . .”_

_Thorin hears Dwalin’s words only through a haze of exhaustion, his vision blurring and doubling at the bloodloss from the few (minor, oh so very minor compared to Bilbo’s and Fíli’s and Kíli’s) injuries he has received and his own exhaustion._

_“Bilbo,” he whispers just before he slides into unconsciousness._

Thorin shakes his head, swallowing hard and bowing his head as he fights to regain his control over his emotions.

Sixty years, and yet every detail has been branded upon his mind. And he knows that even if the Ring is destroyed, it will never truly leave him.

Thorin clenches his fists tightly at his sides, squeezing his eyes shut lest the tears looming on the horizon slip free of his iron control.

_It won’t happen, it will not happen, I will not **allow** it to happen –_

And he knows that if he does let it, he will surely follow Bilbo into death. He _cannot_ live sixty years again without his One at his side.

A hand falls on his shoulder, and Thorin jerks in surprise, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword (not Orcrist, and that _still_ terrifies him) and nearly drawing it before he realizes who the other is.

Dwalin folds himself to sit upon the ground, eyebrows hiking up slightly as he notices the half-drawn blade, and Thorin forces his hand to relax its white-knuckled grip upon the hilt and his muscles to relax.

“Are you all right?” Dwalin says with concern audible in his voice, not even concealed behind his usual mask of gruffness.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Thorin grits out, and Dwalin snorts.

“Hardly. I know you had a nightmare that night at the hobbit’s place, and all of a sudden you’ve become fiercely protective and more on edge than I’ve seen you in years. It’s like you suddenly regressed back to how you were after Azanulbizar, all sharp edges and fierce anger in an attempt to hide your pain.” He leans forward and clasps him companionably on the shoulder, and Thorin tries to hide the sudden rigidity of his back and shoulders.

But his brother is as sharp as ever, and he immediately notes how nervous Thorin seems, the harsh lines in his shoulders and the almost-painful straightness of his spine. “Thorin,” he sighs, and then moves to sit beside Thorin in order to throw a comforting arm around his shoulders. “What are you so afraid of?”

And Thorin wants to answer casually, brushing aside Dwalin’s concerns, but he can’t hide how his breathing catches and how he flinches ever so slightly at his words.

Dwalin’s eyes narrow, and Thorin’s eyes dart about the campsite, searching for a suitable distraction, and then he suddenly realizes: _Bilbo isn’t in the camp._

And he’s leaning against a wall from a destroyed, burnt-out farmhouse, the stones far too neatly cut yet to be the product of decay, and then he _finally_ remembers.

The trolls.

_Damn._

“The Halfling,” he says, and Dwalin tilts his head to the side in confusion.

“Master Baggins is not particularly frightening – ” he starts, and then Thorin is shoving himself to his feet, hand already straying to the hilt of his sword.

“Where is he?” Thorin demands of the camp at large, barely managing to keep his voice from sounding absolutely desperate.

Dwalin makes a small noise of understanding, Bombur saying something about having sent him off to take food to the boys, and then Fíli is abruptly crashing through the undergrowth and bursting into the campsite.

“Trolls,” he says succinctly, and then Thorin is gathering the Company with a jerk of his head and a barked order for them to follow him, which proves to be entirely unnecessary as the entire Company is already moving, weapons at the ready and their faces (even young Ori’s) set in grim lines.

He is almost running when they burst into the clearing, and then his sword is moving in a gleaming arc and slicing remorselessly into the trolls’ hides as they shriek in pain.

The battle is pitched, and one of the trolls is nearly unconscious from his injuries (trolls are a favorite tool of Sauron’s, after all, and these trolls do not have the single-minded ferocity of their kin) when Bofur yells, “ _Bilbo!_ ” and Thorin’s head jerks up to see his One in the clutches of the trolls, whose eyes now gleam with a malicious fury and a need to avenge their wounded companion.

_Cold wind through his hair, strong hands around his beloved’s throat, golden gauntlets flashing beneath the winter sun –_

“No,” he whispers, and almost before the trolls can finish their demands Thorin is throwing his sword to the ground.

He can feel Dwalin’s eyes on him, and he knows he will be receiving a rather brutal interrogation after this but he can’t bring himself to care over the sudden fear in his mind.

For if he could not even change this, if he could not even keep a trio of _trolls_ , for Mahal’s sake, from endangering Bilbo, then how will he be able to destroy the Ring of Power? How will he be able to change _anything_?

He blinks suddenly and he is lying in the sack again, amidst a pile of his kin as several others spin on the spit over the fire, and it is as if he was living this moment for the first time again, and how can he save them if he can’t even protect them without help?

Bilbo slowly gets to his feet, desperately trying to reason with the trolls, only this time the dwarrow with them hurriedly chime in every time he makes a comment, eagerly supporting him with the single-minded fervor of any dwarf defending his own. Thorin knows he should be feeling some measure of accomplishment that he has so swiftly changed their opinions of Bilbo, but all he feels is a terrible guilt over his cruel treatment of Bilbo the first time around, especially now that he knows for a fact only showing common courtesy and politeness would have been enough for their entire Company to align themselves with him so closely.

And then there is a soft rustle in the branches and all of his thoughts are swept away as he realizes that there is something out there, watching quietly over the captured dwarrow.

Warg scouts of Azog’s, perhaps? No, Thorin has not changed enough for that, has not altered the timeline so significantly for it to affect Azog’s behavior, and he is certain the Warg-riders did not arrive until almost midmorning of the next day the last time.

And then he catches a glimpse of a black cloak, the moonlight glinting off a drawn blade and somehow appearing malevolent and foreboding, a dark presence sweeping across the clearing and making Thorin instinctively attempt to flinch away from it.

He closes his eyes, drawing in several breaths to combat the memories welling up within him, not least the fiery pain of cold steel piercing his heart.

Thorin carefully unsheathes the dagger newly hidden in his vambrace – hardly a particularly fine piece of craftsmanship, but it is at the very least functional – with a flick of his wrist and swiftly slices through his bonds, and then he has slipped free of the sack and is darting towards the cave he found Orcrist and Glamdring in before he can rethink his actions. Bilbo needs a weapon if he is to face this evil, Gandalf likewise, and Thorin cannot pretend that he does not desperately want the reassuring weight of Orcrist in his hand once more.

He makes it to the cave as fast as he can manage, trembling ever so slightly as he gasps for breath, carefully venturing down into the troll hoard.

He finds Glamdring and Orcrist exactly where they were last time, and Thorin cannot stop the faint smile as his hand closes around the sword-hilt and Orcrist’s fierce song restarts in his mind, a gentle ripple of the magic that created her that he alone can hear.

Thorin straps the scabbard to his back and draws the blade, holding Glamdring in his off hand as he casts about for Sting, eyes swiftly scanning the cavern for any trace of the small blade.

And it is as his eyes alight momentarily on a small shadow that creates a slit pupil for the circular moonlight eye upon the wall that he realizes what the Nazgûl are doing here.

_Sauron has returned._

Thorin closes his eyes, sinking to his knees as the horror momentarily overwhelms him. They lost the war the _first_ time, and now Thorin is expected to win it battling against an opponent who has advance knowledge of exactly how to best the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.

He draws in a faint, shuddering breath, his hand clenching so tightly upon Orcrist’s hilt that he can feel it digging into his palm.

_I cannot do this._

But something brings him up short, the memory of fierce brown eyes and a soft smile halting his words.

_I am here_ , Bilbo seems to say in his mind. _I am here with you always. You can do this, Thorin Oakenshield. And I will stand beside you every step of the way._

_That is not something you can promise_ , Thorin thinks, but already the despair is leaving him, the fierce determination rising once more in his heart. The same determination that propelled him to destroy the Ring of Power even after sixty years of war and desolation, even knowing there will be nothing left for him at the end of the road, because Bilbo is dead and gone and nothing can change that.

Only now, Bilbo is not dead, Bilbo is _here_ , is alive and well and he can save him. He will save him or die trying.

And if Bilbo falls before Sauron does, Thorin will not hesitate to avenge him. Even if it means his own life.

And then there is a fell scream upon the wind, and Thorin’s head shoots up, his heart beating in sudden fear, because he doesn’t know when Gandalf arrived the last time, doesn’t remember clearly after so long, and if Gandalf is not here than the Company doesn’t stand a _chance_.

Thorin draws in a breath, settling his shoulders back, for he is Thorin _Nazgûl-Slayer_ , and if there is any who can win this fight, it is he.

Thorin starts to get to his feet, and then he feels unyielding metal beneath his boot and glances down to see Sting lying in the dirt beneath his feet, overlooked, forgotten, but the greatest of them all in the end.

Like Bilbo himself, Thorin thinks with a soft smile upon his lips, and then he has picked up the blade in the hand holding Glamdring and is racing towards the trolls’ campsite.

_Stay alive for me, Bilbo. I’m coming. Just hold on a little longer._

* * *

“Glóin!” Bilbo yells, swinging the dwarf’s huge battleaxe at one of the wraiths and then throwing it over to the other with a grunt of exertion. Glóin immediately spins in a vicious arc, sending one of the wraiths back with a screech of pain that makes Bilbo’s ears ring.

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo jerks around at the cry, coming face to face with another of the creatures, this one seeming taller and somehow far more malevolent, despair trailing around it like the dark, tattered cloak it wears. He staggers back, suddenly horribly aware that he’s unarmed, and he blinks swiftly to try and clear the sense of sudden desolation from his mind.

One of Ori’s small stones strikes the creature in the face, and it rears back in shock, and that is enough to break its hold over Bilbo’s mind. The Hobbit swiftly leaps to the side, trying to land and roll back to his feet, but the wraith is faster, blade stabbing into the ground mere inches from Bilbo’s face, close enough that his breath mists upon the steel. Bilbo shoves himself away and tries to scramble backwards, but he’s trapped against the stone wall now, the only escape cut off by the dark creature looming before him, sword poised to strike at his unprotected heart.

And Bilbo is entirely ready to fling himself at the creature, even if it earns him nothing but a slightly sooner death, when a roar of fury and pain sweeps the clearing, and then a figure is slamming into the fell wraith and sending them both sprawling.

The wraith is upon its feet in a moment, but Bilbo’s eyes are drawn to the second figure, which has resolved itself as _Thorin_ , and Bilbo feels a surge of relief at the knowledge that the dwarf is alive after all, but it swiftly gives way to confusion as he notices the bright sword held in one hand and the two sheathed blades in the other.

And he knows Thorin has extensive combat training and battle experience, but even to his untrained eye Thorin’s stance seems specifically tailored to this particular opponent, and his eyes are blazing with a fury so deep that he is taken aback, along with a depth of pain and loss that Bilbo can barely even comprehend.

_This cannot truly be only the result of the dragon and that battle…_

The wraith snarls something in a language Bilbo doesn’t understand, and to his ears it sounds vaguely related to Elvish but somehow _corrupted_.

“Yes,” Thorin snarls, and Bilbo is taken aback at the vicious savagery in Thorin’s voice. “Me.”

The creature lets out a screech of wild fury and leaps at Thorin, sword plunging down, but Thorin twists aside, shouting, “Bilbo!” and then the smallest of the swords is flying towards him, his hands closing around the handle and pulling the blade free to block a down-swinging sword, slashing wildly at the creature attempting to attack him.

The gleaming blade of the wraith sweeps Bilbo’s small sword from his hands, and Bilbo dives after it, knowing every second that the creature is bringing down its blade upon his back, and then there is a roar of protective rage behind him and the creature cries out in pain.

Bilbo’s hand closes around the hilt and he rolls around and up to his feet to see a red-faced Dwalin fiercely dueling with the fell creature.

“Bilbo, go!” Dwalin shouts to him and then lunges at the wraith with a bellow, axes blurring in the air, moving almost faster than the murderous creature looming before him.

Bilbo swiftly shoves himself out of range of the whirling blades, eyes searching through the clearing in a desperate attempt to find –

_There!_

Thorin is dueling the same creature he tackled away from Bilbo, matching it blow-for-blow, the other occasionally making little shrieks of rage as Thorin continually evades it.

“Gandalf!” Thorin calls, blocking a particular fierce lunge, and Bilbo follows his gaze to see the grey Wizard mercilessly striking the blade from the hand of another wraith with his staff. The Wizard’s head shoots up at the cry, and then his hand snaps out to catch the longsword Thorin flings to him, drawing the blade with a calm ease and falling upon the wraith attacking Bombur and Bofur like a particularly unkempt lightningbolt.

Then Bilbo hears Thorin let out a grunt of pain, and his gaze snaps back to see the dwarven king falling to the ground from where he was thrown into the stone, the wraith hovering over him with sword poised to strike the death-blow.

* * *

In retrospect, Thorin should have anticipated this from the moment he redirected his attention long enough to throw Glamdring over to Gandalf safely. He _knows_ the Witch-King of Angmar is far too intelligent to simply pass up such an obvious opportunity, and yet he _still_ took his eyes off him long enough for the other to wrap a gauntleted hand around Thorin’s sword-arm and fling him into the stone enclosing the eastern side of the trolls’ campsite.

Thorin shakes his head, thanking Mahal that he saw fit to create dwarrow with such strong skulls, and then he tries to shove himself up only to be halted by the touch of cold steel at the hollow of his throat.

Thorin instantly freezes, his eyes snapping up to look directly into the eyes of the Witch-King, and though he cannot see his face, he feels Angmar’s smug triumph exuding from him in waves, igniting fury in Thorin’s heart, but also triggering the cold touch of fear, for he has not forgotten _fire blazing below, the weight of the Ring in his hand feeling like a mountain, a Morgul blade slowly sliding into his flesh, seeking out his heart even as the foul poison of the blade steals his sight and consciousness from him –_

The Nazgûl laughs, cold and cruel, and then suddenly the blade at his throat is gone, and he shoves himself up to see _Bilbo_ plunging his tiny sword hilt-deep into the shocked wraith’s chest, and it has vanished with a scream of fury and thwarted wrath before it can even begin to mount a defense.

Thorin leaps to his feet, shoving the memories of dying high above the barren plains of Mordor as far away as possible, carefully taking Bilbo’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “We need to move,” he orders in a tone that brooks no argument, swiftly snatching up Orcrist from the ground and moving towards the plains that should lead to the hidden refuge of Rivendell.

“To where?” Dwalin asks, smoothly intercepting him, and _of course_ Dwalin would argue with his voice of command. “And for what purpose?”

“The Nazgûl will return,” Gandalf and Thorin say at exactly the same moment. “They cannot be killed by any power that we here possess.”

Dwalin glances between Gandalf and Thorin, a narrow-eyed look of suspicion forming on his face, and Thorin curses himself for a fool. He can feel the weight of the others’ eyes upon him, curious and questioning, and just a little accusing, or is he just imagining that?

The silence is broken by the howl of a Warg, and Thorin swears vehemently, inwardly directing several creative invectives towards his inability to consider that _**yes** , Thorin, if Sauron’s back and has sent his Nazgûl out to kill you before you can completely muck up his careful planning, then he will most **certainly** have given orders to have his Warg-riders attack sooner, honestly Thorin, what the hell were you thinking?_

“Run!” Gandalf shouts rather unnecessarily, and then Thorin is leading the charge out in the plains, colored a faint crimson from the light of the rising sun, and Thorin _refuses_ to think about leading his army across the blazing Westfold, fire overtaking everything around them as they ran to reinforce Théoden-King at Helm’s Deep, the supposedly-impregnable fortress that shielded all that remained of Rohan’s population, and about coming upon the great burned-out hulk of the fortress, the Red Eye flying upon the soot-blackened walls, and about Éowyn’s cry as she came across the bodies of her slain kin. He _refuses_.

“They’re coming!” Fíli yells beside him, and Thorin twists around to see the Wargs emerging from the darkness of the forest.

“Kíli, Ori!” he cries out automatically, orders flowing easily from his lips after sixty years of constant war.

_Know this, Sauron: we of the Line of Durin are not so easily vanquished._

The two he has named are already bringing their weapons up, arrow and stone flying across the field towards the Warg-riders.

“Bifur, Dwalin, Balin, Óin, Dori, sweep around to the right flank while the rest of us hold them here!” Thorin orders, and he reaches out to pull Bilbo to his side. “Stay close,” he whispers to the small Hobbit.

“To me, dwarrow of Erebor!” Fíli roars, drawing his twin swords and lifting them to the dawn sky. “To me!”

The rest of the Company bellow approval, weapons lifted to pierce the clouds above, eyes blazing with newfound hope, even Nori caught up in the surge of combat.

Then the Warg-riders are lunging forward and Thorin’s eyes narrow only to his enemies, to Orcrist flashing blue-silver in his hands, to Kíli atop a small knoll, sharp eyes picking out target after target, Fíli at his side, eyes fierce and teeth bared in defiance, to Bilbo on his other side, his small blade flashing swiftly as he defends Thorin from flank attacks.

A Warg lunges, teeth snapping for his throat, and then Orcrist is singing in his hand, blue light trailing in her wake as the Warg falls, the orc barely standing a chance with his poorly-forged blade and leather armour.

So unlike the huge armies of war bred in the depths of Isengard.

And then some nameless fear strikes at his heart and he swings himself around to behold Bilbo as he is knocked to the ground, the orc placing his foot on the Hobbit’s chest and for a terrifying moment he stands, not upon the plains of Rivendell in midsummer, but on an ancient dwarven outpost in the heart of winter, cold wind stealing his breath as he watches Bilbo fall.

And then he shakes the memories away, because the orc’s sword is rising and he _promised_ he wouldn’t let this happen, not _again_ –

“Kíli!” he screams, and he hears his sister-son swearing as the arrow soars past the orc, because he knows Kíli can’t hit him without running the risk of hitting Bilbo, with the poor visibility and the early-morning wind sweeping across the grasslands.

Thorin flings himself forward, Orcrist held ready to strike down the orc lieutenant who would be so willing to harm _his Bilbo_. He isn’t particularly far away, he should be able to reach him in time –

And then a Warg is lunging between him and Bilbo, and Orcrist cleaves its head from its shoulders but the delay is long enough, he sees it happening in advance, knows what’s about to happen next –

And then Radagast the Brown is burying a Morgul blade hilt-deep in the orc’s chest.

Thorin blinks in confusion, thrown by the sudden appearance of the Wizard _here,_ of all places, and where in Mahal’s name did he find a _Morgul blade_?

“ _Radagast_?” Gandalf says in shocked astonishment, and Thorin is slightly gratified to know that at least Gandalf is as confused as he is, but mostly he’s just wondering what in _Durin’s name_ is happening.

“Gandalf,” Radagast acknowledges with a small nod, calmly withdrawing the sword from the orc’s chest and knocking it aside with his staff. He kneels down to offer a rather bewildered Bilbo a hand up, saying as he does so, “I have several rather important things to tell you, but at the moment – why, thank you,” he breaks off, as a small bird drops what appears to be a worm in his hand, which he tucks gently into his beard, “ – as I was saying, at the moment we have a few other things to worry about.”

And that is the cue for the almost-forgotten Warg-riders to lunge forward and that is also Thorin’s cue to bury Orcrist in the skull of a Warg leaping at Fíli.

“Indeed,” he says dryly, and Radagast’s eyes flick to him and linger briefly, a shrewdness often hidden behind the mask of befuddled old wizard shining in their depths. He nods slightly, as if to himself, and then smacks a charging orc in the face with his staff.

Thorin’s eyes narrow, and then he has to swiftly hide his surprise as Radagast winks at him and forms a small symbol with the hand clenched around his staff, the Iglishmêk symbol for the letter _B_ , used by the resistance effort to identify trustworthy allies. Or, as now, an ally with knowledge of the past.

Thorin lets his relief sweep through him for a brief moment _(others are here, I am not alone in my war with Sauron)_ before shoving it violently away to concentrate on the battle still raging around them.

“Come along!” Radagast calls briskly, turning towards the hidden gate of Rivendell and running towards it with Morgul blade clenched tightly in one hand and his staff spinning a defensive ring in the other.

“Move!” Thorin yells. “Fall back!”

“Follow the Wizard!” Dwalin roars, and Thorin shoots a grateful look across at his shield-brother and cousin. Occasionally contrary though he might be (and Thorin knows that Dwalin only does this when he has entire justified reasons for questioning Thorin, not that he’ll admit it), Dwalin is also very good at recognizing when supporting Thorin wholeheartedly is required. For his part, Dwalin gives Thorin a disgruntled look that speaks as clearly as any words: _Explanations the instant we’re not being chased by a ravenous orc pack._

Thorin winces but assents, and is rather taken aback when Dwalin gives him a look that seems almost _comforting_ before turning and dragging Kíli from his rocky hillock, earning him an irritated cry as his shot goes wide.

Thorin squeezes his eyes closed, shaking his head briefly to clear it before he reopens his eyes and moves to follow the rest of the Company.

“Quickly!” Gandalf roars, and then Thorin whirls as a snarl sounds behind him.

“Thorin!” Dwalin bellows as Thorin dives to the side, the Warg's snapping jaws missing him by millimeters.

“Follow Gandalf!” Thorin orders, rolling to his feet and bringing Orcrist scything around to smoothly cut into the Warg's hide. The creature howls in agony as it falls, but almost immediately the orc upon its back is leaping forward, sword flashing in its hand.

Orcrist almost sings as she severs the orc's arm at the elbow, Thorin swiftly reversing the stroke to slice through its unprotected throat.

Before the body has even fallen to the ground, Thorin is already spinning to strike down the Warg seeking his back, its battle-howl ending in a gurgle of blood as Orcrist slices deep into its throat.

The twang of a bowstring warns him mere moments before the arrow soars past him, but a single glance identifies it, not as the barbed arrows of orc-kind, but rather a sturdy dwarven weapon of war as it lodges solidly in the throat of a charging orc. Kíli's arrow is immediately followed by another, and then a stone undoubtedly fired by Ori, which stuns one of the orcs long enough for Thorin to bring it down.

Thorin sends Orcrist through the chest of one of the orcs, eyes swiftly scanning the field as the creature chokes out its dying breaths, and then he spins and runs for the concealed entrance to Rivendell.

One of the pursuers lets out a shout of surprise, and then Thorin hears another arrow being loosed, taking out a Warg if the outraged shout of its former rider is anything to go by.

“Kíli, get down!” Thorin shouts, and he can see the stubborn refusal in his sister-son's eyes but Dwalin, clearly anticipating this reaction, grabs both Kíli and Fíli, who undoubtedly remained above to defend his little brother, and solves the disagreement by the simple expedient of throwing himself down the tunnel and allowing his greater body weight to drag the two younger dwarrow down with him. Thorin opens his mouth to give the same order to Ori, but it proves to be unnecessary; the second the tunnel floor is clear, the scribe immediately leaps down.

A snarl sounds suddenly behind Thorin, unexpectedly close, and Thorin swiftly spins to one side to avoid the blade descending towards his throat. The orc, a surprising light of intelligence in its eyes, immediately follows Thorin's move, one hand snapping out to catch his fur surcoat and bringing the flashing blade down.

Thorin flings himself backwards, intentionally falling into the concealed entrance, the orc unable to release its hold in time to escape the fall. Thorin twists himself around, Orcrist slicing upwards, and then he lands in a roll, the orc's corpse flung from his blade to land on the dirt floor.

Thorin is instantly on his feet, eyes flickering around the small room even as he turns to face any coming threat from the entrance, and he sighs quietly in relief as he notices all are accounted for.

Then his eyes land on Dwalin and he winces.

His longtime friend and shield-brother is watching him with concern and a hint of confused suspicion that nonetheless almost makes him flinch, too used to bearing the Ring to easily trust even when its foul presence is far from him and even when the individual is his closest friend and beyond all ordinary suspicion.

And then again, Thorin has definitively proven his ability to ignore such bonds as friendship and brotherhood.

_“You were always my king. You used to know that once. You cannot see what you have become.”_

_Shock and then betrayal, acid and burning,_ how could you, I trusted you

_“Leave. Before I kill you.”_

Thorin forces his thoughts away before they can twist back on himself, but he can taste the familiar nausea in the back of his throat, and he _swears_ he can smell the burned stone and dragon-stench of Erebor before the restoration –

His hands are shaking again.

Thorin doesn't dare close his eyes, not with the ever-present threat of orcs attacking from above, but he draws in a steadying breath and tries to calm the tremors in his hands, with little success.

And then a horn sounds from above and he could have collapsed in relief as the sounds of the elves routing their pursuers.

Still, for appearance's sake –

“So you disappeared to consult with Elrond?” Thorin demands, glaring without much heat at Gandalf.

“And a lucky thing too, it would seem,” Gandalf immediately returns, but Thorin waves that away.

“And what would have happened had you not arrived in time to confront the Nazgûl?” Thorin asks, and winces inwardly as he realizes his mistake.

“You seemed to have that well in hand without my assistance,” the Wizard says, but his eyebrows are furrowed as he gazes at Thorin, who quietly curses at himself for drawing attention to his sudden, inexplicable knowledge of combating Ringwraiths.

Knowledge that, granted, he most likely will have to volunteer along with the rest of the past sixty years if Dwalin has anything to say about it, which he will, but that is something which he is very stubbornly not thinking about.

“How much did you tell them?” Thorin demands, and Gandalf sighs in exasperation.

“That it would be greatly appreciated if he and his forces were patrolling near Rivendell in order to greet you.”

“And force us into coming to Rivendell, no doubt,” Thorin says, and Gandalf opens his mouth to protest but Thorin ignores him. “You do realize, Gandalf, that this plan of yours would have resulted in us being suddenly surrounded by a large party of armed Elves without warning, which, no matter their intentions, would have automatically resulted in tensions from both sides?”

Gandalf merely sighs in exasperation. “I am well aware of your unreasonable dislike of Elves, Thorin – ”

Thorin resists both the urge to hit his head against the wall repeatedly and the urge to point out Thranduil's actions during the Quest and after the exile from Erebor and manages to say, “It's not about that, it's about the advisability of a plan involving surrounding a group of dwarrow who still recall Thranduil's actions after we were exiled with a large contingent of armed Elves.”

Gandalf stares at him for a time and then Thorin replays the conversation in his head and almost shudders.

Mahal forbid, that was almost _diplomatic_.

“Can we leave this for some other time?” Bilbo interjects rather sensibly, and several of the others nod in agreement.

“You're quite right, Bilbo,” Gandalf says, and he sets off down the path that leads to Rivendell, though not without casting another curious look at Thorin.

Thorin carefully moves to the back as if to take up the position of rear guard, and though Dwalin's eyes are carefully scrutinizing him, the other will not allow himself to leave the princes unguarded in Elven territory and so he lets Thorin take the guard position without comment.

The moment the others are around the corner, Thorin slumps against the wall and closes his eyes, sighing in exhaustion.

A hand in his shoulder startles him back to alertness, and he opens his eyes to see Radagast leaning over him, calm and understanding in his eyes but also a fierce, blazing resolve.

“Any news?” Thorin asks, already beginning to straighten and slough off his weariness in the face of duty.

“Legolas has returned,” the Brown Wizard says without preamble. “How many others, I do not know. There is to be a meeting of the White Council tonight, at the rotunda at the highest point overlooking the valley beyond. I have already sent a message ensuring the relevant parties will be present.” He closes his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. “Sauron is assembling an army unmatched since the force that marched to defend him at Dagorlad an Age ago. He remembers the triumphs of the past, when his army came to destroy Erebor, and he seeks to put them to shame.”

“He already has,” Thorin whispers before he can stop himself. “Decades after you fell, he sent an army to destroy the Shire, to destroy our last vestiges of resistance, to break our spirits and destroy any hope we had at victory. The entire _Shire_ , Radagast, afire as his weapons rained deaths upon us, and the screams – ” Thorin broke off, closing his eyes and clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails bit into his flesh, drew bright scarlet blood.

“It's not going to happen, Thorin,” Radagast whispers, and a gnarled hand gently lifts his chin, Thorin's eyes opening to see reassurance and ferocity in his eyes. “I promise. I won't let it.”

_How many times have we said that?_ Thorin can't help but think, even as he nods and moves to rejoin the others. _And how many times have our promises come to naught, in the end?_

But then he shakes his head hard, shoving such thoughts as far from his consciousness as possible.

_I don't need a Ring to destroy me,_ he thinks grimly. _I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself._

But then the memories of Dwalin and Thorin Stronghelm and so many others putting themselves between him and death rise up, and he knows he can't bring himself to fail them.

Not again.

Not after everything he’s already done.


	7. Chapter 7

Thorin rounds the last corner to the small ledge overlooking Rivendell, noting with relief that the rest of the Company has not noticed his brief disappearance.

Then his eyes travel beyond them to rest on the Last Homely House and his breath freezes in his chest.

In the midmorning sunlight, the entire valley nearly glows, the graceful Elven lines of the buildings shining golden, a world untouched by the fire and death lying beyond its borders, encircled by a border of impenetrable magic.

Not that it helped when faced with the workings of the reborn witch-kingdom of Angmar.

Thorin closes his eyes, trying to force the visions back, but he can still see Elladan and Elrohir trying and failing to hold the magical wall against the green-glowing light of the siege engines, before a final detonation brought them down, Thorin and Arwen arriving too late to do anything but evacuate the last few Elven survivors back to their headquarters.

But the year after, Sauron’s forces fell upon the Shire and tore the last untouched land of Middle-earth to pieces.

“Come,” Gandalf says, and Thorin looks up to see him beginning the climb down into the valley, before the Wizard turns and levels a sharp look at Thorin. “This will have to be handled with tact, and no small degree of charm,” he says, and Thorin bristles, albeit mostly on principle. “Which is why you will leave the talking to _me_.”

With an effort, Thorin manages to bite back an irritated comment to the effect of “ _I_ wasn’t the one who thought arranging for an armed force of Elves to suddenly ambush a company of dwarrow who still recall Thranduil’s betrayal was a good idea” and instead nods mutely and gestures at Gandalf to continue into Rivendell.

Gandalf’s eyebrows fly into his unkempt hair and several of the others send him astonished looks, visibly unbalanced. In fact, out of the entire Company, only Bilbo looks unsurprised, though a faint look of bafflement rises on his face at the sight of all others openly staring at Thorin.

Thorin blinks in confusion, and then has to restrain himself from striking himself on the forehead, for the Thorin that left Ered Luin on the Quest the first time would have most likely risen to Gandalf’s bait, and would undoubtedly have failed to recognize that doing so would have played straight into Gandalf hands.

 _It seems being the Ringbearer has the unexpected benefit of conferring skill at word games_ , Dwalin says helpfully.

 _Shut up_ , Thorin shoots back, glaring at Gandalf as if challenging him to remark upon Thorin’s sudden diplomatic skills, and after a moment the Wizard simply shakes his head and starts down the path.

Dwalin and Balin look like they want to speak to him, but Thorin drops back to the rear guard position and the two sons of Fundin apparently decide that now is not the time. The water rushes beneath them as they cross the bridge, clear and cheerful as it ever was, but what Thorin sees is not the cold, pure waters flowing down from the Misty Mountains but the corrupted taint that all water save a few self-contained pools became in those last years of war, brackish liquid carrying a sickly glow of fell magic.

And then they are over the bridge and into the small courtyard, and Thorin hears the faint gasp from Bilbo at the beauty surrounding them, but into Thorin’s mind the trees of Imladris are withered and twisted, their corrupted water supply infecting them in turn, and the peace of the quiet kingdom is beginning to fail as Narya is finally twisted into the service of the One.

_“Elladan!” Arwen screams as they batter through the orc guards around the valley, the Evenstar blazing at her throat throwing back the shadows of fell sorcery hanging around them, bolstering the failing shield around Imladris. “Elrohir!”_

_The twins stand within the courtyard where the Company was once greeted by an armed host of Elven warriors, one standing with graceful sword drawn, the other holding out his left hand with Narya blazing blue, maintaining the shield._

_The Witch-King roars an order in Black Speech, and then another of the catapults fires, the glowing green fireball slamming into the shield and adding yet more cracks to the spiderweb stretching across the blue sphere._

_Arwen shouts in wordless fury and throws herself into the fray, longsword spinning through her opponents as she carves a path towards her brothers. Thorin swears and brings Orcrist around to cut down an enemy seeking her back, spinning to Ori and shouting, “Hold them!” before he leaps into the orc army to follow the Queen of Gondor, ignoring the shouts behind him._

_Another fiery stone strikes the wall, the entire shield rippling as Elladan staggers back, his hand falling to his side and the ring’s glow flickering, going dark –_

_< >Thorin hears the Ring whispering in triumph, and even though the elf rises once more, the shield solidifying again, he knows they have very little time._

_“Arwen!” he shouts across to her, but the elven queen doesn’t hear him as she remorselessly cuts down the orcs standing between her and her brothers, ignoring all else._

_“Arwen!” Thorin tries once more, and then a cruel, malicious laugh echoes through his mind, his head snapping up to see a metal shell Thorin recognizes as belonging to the exploding sorcery of Saruman._ The traitorous Istar might have fallen, but his work lives on _, he thinks grimly, and then he shoves past the orcs and tackles Arwen as the explosive flies above their heads, slamming into the shield and detonating in a violent explosion._

_Thorin’s ears are ringing as he begins to struggle to his feet, the fell magic released in the detonation whispering around him, and his vision blurs as it sinks into his mind, the Ring calling it to him like moths to flame._

_He hears a faint cry, distorted as if through water, and looks up to see Elrohir standing in front of his twin brother, who lies insensate on the stone courtyard, Narya’s weak glow now cold and dark._

_A shriek echoes around him, and then everything slams back into focus, and Thorin spins around as the Witch-King rears up behind him, Orcrist barely blocking the falling blade._

_“Arwen, go!” Thorin yells, swinging the Elven blade around, and it leaves trails of blue flame in the air behind it as it slices into the black armour of the Nazgûl. The Witch-King shrieks in pain before counterattacking, the Morgul blade flashing as it descends, but Orcrist catches the blade and parries it aside, blue shining in the air as Thorin slashes at its unprotected throat._

_< >But the moment before Orcrist would have struck home, the Nazgûl blocks his stroke, attempting to push his blade back, and Thorin grits his teeth and holds his ground despite the aura of dark magic all around him._

_The Nazgûl shoves him backwards, its blade singing as it cuts through the air, and Thorin flings himself away as the blade comes perilously close, and before the creature can regain its balance, he lunges forward and buries Orcrist to the hilt in its chest, flinging it off the bridge._

_The moment before it hits the water, Thorin senses a wave of magic from it, and braces himself for the impending attack, but it never comes, even the Ring almost quiet within his mind._

_Thorin looks up, and within the courtyard he sees one of the Nazgûl standing above Elladan, Elrohir engaged in combat with another group of orcs and unable to come to his brother’s defense._

_Thorin lunges forward, his heart in his throat suddenly, the desperate question_ how did it get past, how did I let it past me? _echoing through his mind and going unanswered as he brings Orcrist around to cut through the throat in one swift motion._

_Only chance saves the creature as it blocks his strike, visibly straining to hold him back, only the fact that it happened to look up at the perfect moment saving it from dying instantly. The Nazgûl shoves him backwards, rising to its feet, and Thorin seizes the chance to retake the offensive, Orcrist flashing in the air as he steadily drives the wraith back and away from Elladan. He hears it trying to speak, but the words are washed away as its fellows soar above and the orc army begins to pour into Rivendell. Behind the Nazgûl, Thorin can see Ori trying to lead their small united force to the defense of the Elven forces but an army rises between them and him and worse, the siege weapons of Angmar are recalibrating to fire upon the defenders._

_But that single moment of inattention costs him dearly as the Nazgûl knocks Orcrist from his hands, and he tries to draw the dagger at his belt, his mind crying out desperately,_ no, they need me, the Shadow cannot win, **please**

_But then the blade in the Nazgûl’s hand is spinning around and strikes the dagger away, and then it kicks him into the stone stairway and drives the breath from his lungs as his head strikes the stone, blacking out his vision momentarily._

_When he refocuses, Arwen is leaning over him, her lips moving soundlessly as Thorin blinks away the darkness hovering at the corners of his vision, before he sees a shadow rising up behind her._

_His hand closes around Orcrist, which miraculously landed not far from where he is now, and then he is lunging past Arwen to block the descending blade, the memories of forcing a Nazgûl away from Elladan rising in his mind, accompanied with a fierce desperation –_

_And he finds himself blocking the strike of a nondescript orc soldier, and despite his confusion he still automatically brings Orcrist around to slice through its neck, eyes already scanning the courtyard before the body even falls. To one side he can see Elladan shakily drawing his bow, Elrohir cutting down any who try to strike at his brother, but the Nazgûl he was fighting has disappeared as if it never was._

_Thorin turns slowly to check if Arwen is alright, and the wariness in her eyes as they meet his catches him off guard, and then he realizes._

_Orcrist clatters from sudden nerveless fingers as he sways, and he has to place a hand on the column beside the stairway to steady himself, and even though his head is throbbing painfully and he can feel blood trickling down the side of his face his sudden nausea is for another reason entirely._

_Arwen’s gentle hand touches his cheek, and he opens his eyes to see her looking at him reassuringly, the fierce white light of the Evenstar dimming down to a gentler glow. “Thorin, it wasn’t your fault,” she says gently, but with steel in the words, and then she is offering Orcrist back to him, and Thorin’s hand is closing automatically around the blade and he is turning to face the orc army pouring into Imladris from the bridge._

_The Nazgûl shriek above, and he can hear them landing within the citadel but doesn’t dare turn lest they enchant him once more, but even as he drives his attackers back he can hear the explosions from behind as Sauron’s catapults fire into the city as well as at the resistance force attempting to force their way into the besieged Rivendell._

_A shout of pain sends Thorin spinning around, his eyes locking onto the falling figure of Elrohir, a diagonal slash across his chest already beginning to darken with the poisons upon the Morgul blades._

_Arwen howls in fury and loss, lunging forward with her silver sword flashing, but then Elladan picks up his brother’s fallen sword and buries it hilt-deep in the Nazgûl’s chest._

_The fell creature screams in agony, but despite the fatal injury its blade flashes out and cuts deep into Elladan’s stomach, blood spurting as it jerks the weapon away. The half-Elven warrior falls back to the stone, the Nazgûl lifting its sword to strike another blow –_

_And then Arwen thrusts her sword forward, knocking the Morgul blade from its hand and sending it staggering back before she decapitates the wraith in one swift motion, kicking the body out of the way to stand between her brothers and the rest of the Nazgûl emerging from the darkness, a faint glow of wrath humming in the air around them as the breeze suddenly shifts, a cold wind rising to ripple through the tattered black cloaks around them._

_The first lunges forward, the blade singing in its hand as it plunges downwards, and Arwen blocks the first few attacks but her anger leaves her guard open, and the sword flashes as it swings around –_

_Only to clatter to the ground as Orcrist slices off the wraith’s wrist, biting deep into its armour as Thorin reverses the swing before kicking it off the edge. He immediately spins around to stand between Arwen and the oncoming attackers, the wraiths suddenly seeming unsure at his appearance._

_“Arwen, get out of here,” Thorin orders, not taking his eyes off the Nazgûl._

_“But my brothers – my people – ”_

_“ – are beyond your help, now **go**!”_

_Thorin hears her receding footsteps and then the sound of an elf-horn calling retreat, but Thorin cannot heed it, the Nazgûl advancing on him too swiftly and he knows he will be cut down if he tries to run. Orcrist slashes through the armour of the first attacker before it can even attempt an offensive, but the second uses the brief moment of distraction to attack from the side, and Thorin barely dodges the sword as it whistles past. Before the creature can rebalance, he counters, but the Nazgûl anticipates his move and blocks the blow, its companion lunging forward and knocking Thorin down before he can react._

_Thorin lands hard on his back, the Nazgûl pinning him to the ground, and he realizes too late that the Ring on its chain is no longer tucked safely beneath his armour but rather lying upon his chest, within easy reach of the fell creature. The wraith reaches out –_

_And a Rohirric broadsword bites deep into its arm, causing it to howl sharply in pain, and then Thorin has shoved it off and buried Orcrist in its chest, one hand ensuring that the Ring still hangs about his throat._

_“Thorin!” Éowyn calls, her hand extended out to him, and Thorin cuts down the wraith attempting to attack from behind and accepts her assistance as she pulls him up onto her horse. She spurs the dun stallion forward, clearing the corrupted river in a leap and then they are galloping swiftly away as Rivendell burns behind them._

A hand on Thorin’s shoulder brings him back to the present, and he looks up to see Radagast staring resolutely ahead, but tears collect in the Wizard’s blue eyes and he bites his lips until they bleed.

“ _Mithrandir_ ,” a voice says in Sindarin, and the Company looks up to see a brown-haired elf descending the steps into the courtyard, inclining his head slightly to Gandalf and Radagast but looking with undisguised curiosity and mild disdain at the assembled dwarrow.

“ _What brings you here?_ ” he asks of Gandalf in Sindarin, his eyes flickering to the dwarrow once more as he speaks. “ _And in such company?_ ”

“ _We come to seek aid from Lord Elrond_ ,” he responds in the same language. “ _Has he returned?_ ”

“ _No, he is still out in the fields with his warriors_ ,” the doorwarden – Lindir, Thorin thinks his name might be – starts, but he breaks off at the sound of a horn in the distance.

“Close ranks!” Dwalin barks immediately, and Bofur drags Bilbo into the center beside Ori, Fíli, and Kíli as the dwarrow bring their weapons up, readying for combat.

Radagast and Thorin exchange exasperated glances as Elrond’s cavalry close in a tight circle around the Company, visibly placing hands on sword hilts as they circle the dwarrow, prompting the Company to raise their weapons defensively at the implicit threat.

“My point is made,” Thorin says dryly, addressing Gandalf, who looks rather irritated.

“ _Thank you_ , Thorin,” he snaps as he marches forward to address Elrond, who looks rather baffled.

“What – ?” he asks, visibly confused, and then he looks at Thorin for the first time. “If I am not mistaken,” he says, something unidentifiable flickering in his eyes, “you are Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, heir to the throne of Erebor.”

“Indeed I am,” Thorin says with the slightest inclination of the head, though his eyes narrow at the unreadable look forming on Elrond’s face. “How did you recognize me?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“You have your grandfather’s bearing,” the elf lord replies, though he is still studying Thorin closely. “I knew Thrór when he ruled under the mountain.”

A pause ensues as Thorin avoids the obvious traps of the elf’s immortality and the still-present disgruntlement at “Elven arrogance”, briefly debating whether or not to send back another subtle jab at the elf before deciding that he might as well.

“I have long hoped I could be as great a king as he was,” Thorin responds, greatly enjoying the way Elrond’s eyebrows fly into his hairline, and then, before he can stop himself, “and I dearly hope, for your sake, you were referring to his regality and not the specter of gold-madness.”

(Thorin should not be this proud of himself for managing to utter those last few words without hesitation, but he is.)

“You are not what I expected, son of Thráin,” Elrond says as he dismounts, appearing to consider his own words and then shrugging minutely before continuing, “though I suppose one with a reputation such as yours would not be so easily predicted.”

Thorin tilts his head to the side in confusion and the slightest bit of suspicion, eyes narrowing, but Elrond merely gives him a look of equal confusion before he turns to speak with Gandalf.

Thorin glances at Radagast, seeing only his own confusion mirrored in the Brown Wizard’s eyes.

“Lunch will be served in a few minutes,” Elrond says, addressing them all once more. “You are welcome to join us.”

“We are grateful for your hospitality,” Thorin says, cutting off Glóin midsentence, and only when the others look at him oddly does Thorin realize that the offer of food had been made in Sindarin.

“Come along, then,” Elrond says as he ascends the steps, apparently deciding to leave the question of how Thorin suddenly knows Sindarin for another time, and Thorin ignores the eyes of the Company upon him as he follows.

* * *

The dining pavilion of Rivendell is filled with the sounds of sweet Elven harp and flute music – Thorin can appreciate the tastes of other races, even if he personally thinks that he could do far better than the current harpist – but the tension in the air is so thick Thorin doubts even the presence of the Ring could do much to make it worse. The Company are visibly disgruntled at the diets of the Firstborn, the elves are disgruntled at their disgruntlement, Gandalf is trying to negotiate and doing so terribly, and Thorin is currently too busy trying to avoid the memories of the battle fought here to help.

“What were you doing on the Great East Road?” Elrond asks with that same unreadable look still on his face as he glances at Thorin, though his question is directed at Gandalf.

“We were continuing on our journey,” the Wizard says with a look of too-obvious calm on his features, and Thorin spares a moment to be grateful for his grandfather and Fundin’s expert tutelage in the art of diplomacy, no matter how little he might have despised it at the time.

“I see,” Elrond says neutrally, and this time Thorin has to restrain himself from banging his head on the table. Had he truly been too blinded by his irrational hatred of all elves (though he maintains that his hatred of _Thranduil_ in particular is perfectly rational) to have failed to noticed Gandalf’s catastrophic negotiating failure?

 _Please tell me I wasn’t this bad_ , he laments within the privacy of his own mind.

 _You were worse_ , Balin says with a note of barely concealed glee.

“Actually, we were en route to the Misty Mountains when we were waylaid by a group of trolls and then by the Nazgûl themselves,” Thorin interjects helpfully, and Gandalf gives him a dirty look as Elrond blanches, eyes widening in horror.

“Truly?” he whispers, and Thorin can only nod grimly.

“In fact, we were only rescued by Thorin’s rather timely return,” Gandalf informs the elf lord, and Thorin shoots him a glare.

Elrond proceeds to direct his full attention onto him, his eyes narrowing with confusion and some suspicion, but not a trace of surprise. “Where had you disappeared to, may I ask?” he says, and Thorin finds himself desperately wishing to be anywhere but here.

“And then you returned with weaponry that would not appear out of place in the armouries of Gondolin,” Gandalf continues, a dawning suspicion beginning to form in his eyes, and Thorin subtly glances at Radagast to ensure the other Wizard will be able to assist Thorin should he need to escape.

"Indeed?” Thorin says with false surprise, lying through his teeth as he makes a series of swift Iglishmêk gestures at Radagast: _Has Elrond returned?_

“You did not realize this?” Gandalf says with some surprise, buying time as Radagast casts an evaluating look at Elrond in the guise of pretending to examine a small songbird’s wing for feather tattering or whatever the Wizard is pretending to be doing. “Then how did you know they would defend against the swords of the Nazgûl?”

“I didn’t,” Thorin says, once more lying. “I recognized their great craftsmanship, but I did not realize they were of Gondolin.”

“If I am not mistaken, they are,” Gandalf says, and then turns to Lord Elrond. “Perhaps you would be willing to examine them?”

“Certainly,” Elrond replies, and as he is speaking Radagast signs to Thorin: _No. He knows something, but his bearing is one of a person trying to learn of some great mystery._

Thorin nods his confirmation to the Wizard as he passes over Orcrist, prepared to let Elrond examine it for some time as before, even if his hands start twitching the moment the blade is out of easy reach.

But almost the moment Elrond touches the hilt his eyebrows fly into his hairline, and he barely takes a moment’s examination to declare, “This is Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver, one of the great blades of Gondolin though the name of her bearer is now lost to history. But more importantly, she has chosen you.”

Thorin blinks, thrown, but clearly this statement means something to the two Wizards so they both spin around to stare at the elf lord in undisguised shock.

“Truly?” Gandalf says, sounding aghast, though Radagast is looking between Thorin and the blade in Elrond’s hands with the air of someone coming upon a realization.

“The signs are clear,” Elrond says, and could he be _any more cryptic_ , for _Mahal’s sake_.

“What does that mean?” Thorin asks, and he’s trying to sound polite but the years of being the Ringbearer have woven a pattern of suspicion and wariness into his mind and he cannot let it go so easily. Especially not when Elrond and Gandalf are being so thrice-cursedly _elvish_.

“The ancient swords forged within Gondolin have more magic within them than constant sharpness or the power to warn of approaching orcs,” Elrond says as he passes Orcrist back, and Thorin feels a sharp wave of relief at having the weapon with him once more. “Very few of them have the ability to choose a wielder, and once they have done so it is difficult – some might even say impossible – for that loyalty to be revoked. It is not unsurprising for the blade to then refuse to be wielded by another, and many are buried with their chosen wielder. This is a gift that has been given only a few times in all of history.” Elrond’s eyes are closely scrutinizing him once more, and Thorin cannot help glaring back in mute challenge. “But I wonder what you must have done to earn this bond so swiftly and have it be established so powerfully in such a short amount of time. You found Orcrist only hours ago now, and yet she and you have a bond as if you have fought together in combat for years upon end.”

“Are you certain of this?” Thorin asks, stubbornly refusing to think about _combat for years upon end_ and buying himself some time to adjust as he stares down at the Elven greatsword in shock.

“As I said, the signs are clear.” Elrond leans back in his chair, something vaguely like smugness crossing his features at having so smoothly unbalanced not only Thorin but also the two Istari present. “You hear a song in your mind, do you not? Sourceless, silent but not unheard? And I would bet my warhorse that she assisted you in the battle with the Nazgûl.”

 _Not that one, but undoubtedly others,_ Thorin thinks, studiously avoiding Elrond’s eyes lest the other read the memories there.

“Either way, with the darkness currently threatening the world, it is lucky indeed that that sword shall be wielded once more by one that she feels loyal enough to bond to,” Elrond says, accepting Glamdring as Gandalf mutely holds it out.

Thorin and Radagast meet each other’s gazes and contain barks of slightly bitter laughter. The elf lord truly has no idea of the true extent of the shadow about to fall upon Middle-earth.

Though technically he should not even know as much as he does. . .

“This is Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer, wielded by the King of Gondolin,” Elrond says, sliding the shining steel back into the scabbard and passing the blade back to Gandalf, before turning to Thorin with a host of questions in his eyes.

“What did you mean, about my reputation?” Thorin asks suddenly, cutting off the question on the elf’s lips and delaying the awkward discussion of how he managed to locate a troll-hoard in the dead of night and why he would sneak away to find it during a tense confrontation with the aforementioned trolls.

Elrond looks rather frustrated with Thorin’s sudden interjection, which on an elf must mean he is ready to tear his own hair out in a confused rage.

Good to know Thorin isn’t the only one.

And then Elrond begins examining the tablecloth in a classic tactic of stalling an unpleasant conversation, and Thorin exchanges another look with Radagast. Clearly, the elf lord knows _something_.

“Did you happen to meet my daughter Arwen on the road?” he asks suddenly, and Thorin very quietly screams through his teeth and drops his head in his hands.

“And people wonder why I prefer hiding in the forest,” Radagast says with audible amusement.

Elrond sighs and rubs his temples, looking as if he’d rather dance on the plinth singing Bofur’s “The Man in the Moon” dressed as an orc than go through this conversation.

Thorin has no sympathy for him in the slightest.

“My daughter Arwen took her sword and armour and rode off into the Wild a little less than a week ago,” Elrond says at last, and Thorin narrows his eyes. A little less than a week… about the same time Thorin himself awoke within the Shire, then. “But before she did so, she confided in me, among other things, that there would soon be a Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, arriving to Rivendell and mentioned you, by name, in tales of a war to rival the original war with Sauron.”

He looks up, his eyes scrutinizing Thorin closely. “But unless she refers to the Battle of Azanulbizar, which was horrific but hardly a war as far as I have heard, you have participated in nothing to the scale of what she recounted.”

“You are a known reader of the future, Elrond,” Radagast says suddenly. “Could that skill have not also passed to your daughter? That would explain the incongruity.”

“That does not explain, however, the fact that the two of you seem to have reached an accord without having even met prior to today,” Elrond says mildly.

Thorin freezes, trying to hide the flash of panic at the thought of revealing his history to those who have not yet seen it unfold with their own eyes, or at least some of it. However, the sudden sharp look in Gandalf and Elrond’s eyes tells him that he is not entirely successful.

Thorin clears his throat, mentally scrambling for some kind of response, before he is saved by the least expected party, namely Bofur climbing atop his previous plinth and bursting into song.

Thorin immediately stands and moves over to the Company with a muttered, “Sorry, need to stop the food-throwing before it begins” and silent thanks to Mahal for the intervention.

A few quiet words ensure that the food fight is constrained to the small table they are seated at, though he doesn’t bother to halt Bofur’s singing, and when Thorin next glances up Lindir is muttering something to Elrond and the two Wizards, all of whom wear looks of deep concern, Radagast in particular.

As the three rise and follow the doorwarden out of the pavilion, the Brown Wizard sends a glance back at Thorin and signs _Saruman_ as he departs. Thorin swears under his breath, for of course the traitorous Istar would decide to convene the meeting early in hopes of surprising the others.

 _It worked_ , Thorin mutters grimly to himself, and makes to follow the three council members to the small rotunda, hearing the Company rising as well to follow him.

Once they have reached the relative solitude of the hallway, Thorin turns to order the Company back to their rooms, only for Dwalin to grab him by the shoulders and slam him into the wall.

“ _Explanations_ ,” he growls out, sounding more like an avalanche than a dwarf, and despite the lack of any foul touch of the Ring upon his mind Thorin still has to close his eyes and breathe to subdue his instincts to attack and calm his wildly beating heart.

When he opens his eyes again, it is to Dwalin’s solid features not inches from his own, but the true concern in his eyes is clear to see despite his mask of false anger.

“Thorin,” he sighs, “what’s wrong? Can you at least tell us what has happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Thorin lies automatically, and Dwalin snarls in frustration, visibly restraining the urge to shake him.

“I have known you for five days and even _I_ know something’s wrong,” Nori interjects helpfully.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Thorin reiterates.

“ _Thorin_.”

Thorin meets Dwalin’s eyes as steadily as he can, clasping his hands behind his back to hide the tremors.

“I’m not lying,” Thorin says, and Dori snorts.

“Fine,” Dwalin says, “if you won’t tell me what’s wrong, then will you at least tell me why you act like someone is about to attack you from behind at any second?”

Thorin flinches, and despite the minuteness of the movement Dwalin notices it in a second.

“Don’t you trust us, laddie?” Balin asks from somewhere behind him, and Thorin sighs wearily, ignoring the flash of guilt.

“I do,” he says, and this time he meets their eyes when he speaks, ensuring that they can read the truth should they fail to believe him once more. “And that is exactly why I do not wish to tell you.”

“That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”

“No,” Thorin says, trying to hide his helplessness, and then gives up and buries his head in his hands. He hears Dwalin sighing softly through the darkness, and the other gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze that he knows should be calming but only heightens the feeling of being trapped. “I don’t – I trust you because I care for you, and it is for exactly that reason that I cannot tell you.”

Dwalin groans, the hand on Thorin’s shoulder disappearing, and when he instinctively looks up his shield-brother is pinching the bridge of his nose and growling under his breath in Khuzdul, before he flings his arms out and snaps in exasperation, “Damn it, Thorin, we’re trying to help you – ”

“I don’t need _help_ – ” _don’t think about the Ring, don’t you dare, Thorin Oakenshield, **do not**_

“Yes, I’m certain you’re perfectly fine and sane,” Óin starts with frustration coloring his tone, now that the conversation has finally reached a volume he can hear, only to break off when Thorin flinches violently. “What did I say?”

Thorin turns away from them, running one hand through his hair and focusing on the gentle carvings on the ground until they remain the same and do not fade into memories of battles long past. Dwalin or Balin’s hand falls on his shoulder, and he shrugs it off and starts walking, ignoring the babble of words behind him.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says softly, his hand falling upon Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin could have shoved it away easily but instead he freezes as if suddenly turned to the stone from which every member of their race was made.

Except the heat leaching into his bones from the small Hobbit’s hand on his shoulder makes him feel warmer than stone ever could, igniting heat and fire and life deep within his heart, but so very different from the cloying, suffocating warmth of the Ring of Power.

 _You are such a hopelessly besotted fool_ , Dís says warmly in his head, trying to sound scathing but coming across as delighted instead.

“Can you not tell us how to help you?” Bilbo says, soft and warm and caring, and this, _this_ is the Hobbit Thorin fell in love with and could have spent centuries simply _watching_ and never grown weary of doing so.

At some point, their little burglar has circled around so he stands in front of Thorin, holding Thorin’s hands in his, soft and unscarred but he knows the strength and courage that runs through his One as if the Hobbit has mithril in place of his bones, fire instead of blood.

But even Bilbo’s great courage is not enough to anchor him in the face of this, not enough to convince him to bare the sixty years of warfare to those who do not (yet) bear those scars. He has sworn to keep the desolation from touching them, even mentally, and he refuses to be an oathbreaker after everything else he has done.

Thorin looks up from their entwined hands to meet Bilbo’s eyes, and just the heartbroken look in their amber depths is almost enough to make him change his decision, before he sharply reminds himself that Bilbo will have to bear grief and sorrow far worse than this should he reveal the truth.

“I cannot – ” Thorin starts, and then his head snaps up at the noise echoing down the hall, a truly astonishing outburst if Thorin is able to hear it from this hall.

“Thorin, what now,” Dwalin says, sounding equal parts exasperated and angry, but Thorin can only think of _Saruman_ and _the fell sorcery of Orthanc, twisted yet further by Sauron and his Witch-King_ , and then he is (gently, gently, do not injure him) shrugging away Bilbo’s hands and running down the main hall out to the small landing where he and Bilbo overheard Gandalf and Elrond in his first Quest for Erebor, swiftly descending to follow the winding Elven pathway up to a small rotunda placed nearly upon the cliff edge.

“Thorin, what in Durin’s name,” Dwalin says in exasperation but Thorin can see the edge of concern beneath the words, and understands that his shield-brother wishes with all his heart that he could help only he does not know how. Thorin briefly wonders how it might have felt to be in Dwalin’s place and he feels a sharp surge of both desperate confusion and fury born of helplessness, before sharply reminding himself that it is not actually true, thank Mahal.

If any of the Company remembers, Thorin thinks he might forgo the traditional beard shaving for shame and skip straight to his hair. Never mind that it technically is beyond his control, and that he has no say in what they do and do not recall.

“Is that the Lady of the Golden Wood?” Ori chimes in suddenly, and of _course_ it’d be Ori out of all the others to recognize the great Lady of Lórien.

“Yes, I believe it is,” Balin says, peeking around the decorative statue, and _when_ did the _entirety of the Company_ arrive here.

“Indeed, now be _silent_ ,” Thorin hisses at them, a bit more sharply than he might have intended, but the Company, to a dwarf (or Hobbit, as the case may be), seem to ignore this in favor of trying to listen in on what is being said in this great council of the Wise.

Or as great a council as any can be with Saruman involved.

“ – saw it personally,” Radagast is saying, his tone barely civil. “You may not like it, Lord Saruman – _I_ certainly don’t – but the fact of the matter is that Sauron is rising once more.”

“That is impossible,” Saruman snaps over the sound of twelve dwarrow and a Hobbit letting out gasps of horrified astonishment. “He was killed with his army at the end of the Second Age. This creature in Dol Guldur is a mere human sorcerer, nothing more.”

“I saw him giving commands to the Nazgûl personally.”

“A very _foolish_ sorcerer then.”

“If that was true, they would not have listened,” comes Radagast’s swift rejoinder, and Thorin wonders idly just where Radagast the Brown learned how to conduct a diplomatic argument. “And they did listen, Saruman. The Nazgûl attacked the Company of Thorin Oakenshield upon the road.”

“I can verify this, and should you need further proof then I have fourteen individuals below who could provide you with eyewitness testimony of these events,” Gandalf says coolly. “As you well know, Saruman, there have been no stories spread of the exact descriptions of the Nine for fear they would be resurrected. We need only ask them to describe their attackers, and see if the descriptions they give match the appearances of the Nazgûl. Additionally, I myself dueled two of these dark creatures, so I can be assured of their reality, Saruman.”

“Old friend, why do you remain undecided?” Galadriel asks, her voice soft and gentle but hiding a touch of constrained fury. “We have all recognized the need for a united defense against this threat. You are the only one who still maintains that the Shadow in Dol Guldur is merely a human sorcerer styling themselves the Necromancer and daring to summon the dead. And I cannot help but wonder at the reason why.”

There is the clatter of steel on stone, and then a few exclamations of shock.

“The spells of Minas Morgul lie upon that blade as powerfully as the day it was forged,” Radagast says with a hard edge of anger to his words. “Such a relic cannot be enchanted or summoned by a human sorcerer, and neither would the spells be so strong after centuries upon millennia of disuse.”

“You are overreacting,” Saruman says blandly.

“They called him _Master_ ,” Radagast snaps out, slamming a hand upon the table in a rare display of visible anger. “They referred to him as their liege-lord.”

“And since when can you speak Black Speech to such an extent as to be able to draw that conclusion?” Saruman replies in a voice of frigid ice, and Thorin senses rather than sees Radagast halting in his restless pacing at those words.

“Thorin?” Fíli whispers questioningly, the first time either of his sister-sons have spoken up since they have reached Rivendell, at least when he is in hearing range. Thorin makes a shushing gesture at him, but he shoots Fíli a slightly hesitant smile of reassurance that his enforced silence is for security and not meant as rejection. Fíli pats him comfortingly on the shoulder and then crouches next to him to continue listening.

“But it is the matter of these dwarves that concerns me far more,” the White Wizard says, and Thorin freezes. “They threaten the stability and security of the entire north with their obsession with gold.”

“It’s not about the gold – ” Bofur and Fíli and yes, even Bilbo start furiously, before Thorin gestures at them all to shut up.

“They will wake the dragon,” Saruman predicts, and Thorin cannot stop himself from rolling his eyes in disgust. Of _course_ Smaug will awaken, he will awaken no matter what Thorin does or does not do.

“Perhaps,” Elrond says in a quiet voice, and Thorin blinks. As far as he recalls, Elrond disapproved of the Quest when they last were here, even endeavoring to halt their further passage east. “But even if that is true, I doubt we can stop them.”

“They are _dwarves_ ,” Saruman says, his contempt plain, and Thorin automatically reaches out to seize Dwalin and Glóin by the wrists to keep them from charging in to attack. “What resistance can they put up against us?”

There is a loud snort which undoubtedly comes from Radagast, but it is Elrond who says calmly, “Far more than we have given them credit for. Thorin Oakenshield has been chosen as Orcrist’s wielder after mere hours.”

Technically untrue, but then again Thorin cannot pinpoint the exact moment Orcrist chose to bond with him. For all he knows, it happened the moment he found her in the troll hoard.

“Even with such a legendary weapon, he will not be able to kill the dragon. You know this.”

Actually, it might just be possible for Thorin to do something like that. It will be nice if he can stop the burning of Laketown for a second time.

“I disagree,” Radagast says coldly. “It is his decision to make as king, and he has made his choice clear. We have neither the right nor the authority to stop him.”

“You are wrong about that, forest guardian,” the White Wizard says, words nearly dripping with disdain. “We have appointed ourselves the guardians of Middle-earth, and the release of another dragon upon the world is most assuredly one which deserves our personal attention. We will order the dwarves to halt this mission.”

“Overruled,” Galadriel says in a voice no less frigid than a northern winter. “This is their homeland that they are reclaiming. We will not intercede.”

“My Lady – ”

“We. Will. Not. _Intercede_.”

There is a terribly long pause, and then Saruman says in a voice of building power and furious hate, “Very well.”

And then Thorin bursts from his hiding place behind the column and is lunging forward, the rest of the Council frozen at the shock of the realization that the greatest among them has betrayed them while the White Wizard lifts his arms, thunder rumbling through the air –

And Thorin brings Orcrist down towards the Wizard’s chest, causing him to instinctively bring the staff in to shield, and the sound of the ancient magic woven into Orcrist’s heart striking the equally ancient and powerful workings of Saruman’s staff shrieks in the air and sends a burst of power into Thorin, whiting out his vision momentarily from the pain, but the gathering storm around the Wizard is momentarily abated. Radagast, seizing his chance, instantly brings his staff around to strike the black staff from the Wizard’s hand, sending it clattering across the room.

Saruman smiles coldly, raising his hands into the sky, and despite the loss of his weapon the storm still shrieks around them, wind whipping the Wizard’s white hair and robes.

“Release the magic!” Thorin orders, bringing Orcrist around so the tip of the blade rests at the Wizard’s throat as lightning flashes in the sky, almost blinding him.

“You have no power over me,” Saruman says, his voice fierce and strong, humming with the gathering power of one of the Maiar.

Thorin feels his lips curve upwards into a dark, vicious smile and he does not bother to halt it.

“I,” he says, cold and fiery in equal measure, finally giving voice to a decades-old fury blazing in his heart, “am Thorin Nazgûl-Slayer, the Ringbearer of Erebor and the leader of a united resistance force which rivals the Last Alliance itself. I have fought armies bearing the sorceries of an Angmar restored, I have seen the great cities of men and elves and dwarrow fall, and I have carried Sauron’s Ring of Power through sixty years of warfare. I have watched the world _burn_ , Saruman the White, and believe me when I tell you that I do not fear you.” Thorin meets the Wizard’s eyes, no longer bothering to maintain his defenses, and whatever Saruman sees in that long moment of silence is enough for him to pale with fear. “So I will give you this one last chance: _Release. The. Magic_.”

There is another pause, but then Saruman begins to lower his arms back to his sides, the storm slowly dissipating, as Thorin removes Orcrist from his throat, though he keeps her resting at his side.

Though the magic is still fading, Thorin sees Saruman’s features twist as if he is about to spit out something in a furious rage, but then Radagast cracks him across the head with his own wooden staff.

The White Wizard slumps at Thorin’s feet in a pile of formerly-immaculate white robes, completely unconscious.

Radagast immediately brings the staff up to his eye, clucking at it sadly. “His hard head nicked it,” the Brown Wizard complains, almost to himself, as he runs a gnarled thumb along the wood. “And that was carved by my little family of sparrows too, I _liked_ it. . .” He glances up at Thorin, and then his brow furrows in alarm. “Thorin? Are you all right?”

Thorin blinks, and he knows he should be saying something reassuring but the words refuse to pass his lips. He blinks again and then he realizes abruptly that he has fallen to his knees on the stone floor, hands barely supporting him from collapsing entirely.

“Someone needs to take care of – ”

“Allow me,” Galadriel says, and then she is kneeling beside Saruman and calmly picking him up as if he weighs nothing, carrying him down the stairs with an ethereal dignity as if she regularly disposes of unconscious traitor Istari.

“Thorin,” a voice says, and the dwarf refocuses to see Elrond kneeling before him, features tight with concern. “I need you to stay awake. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” he replies, keeping his voice even and his breathing steady despite the pain throbbing in his skull along with his heartbeat.

“Gandalf – ” the elf lord begins, but before he can continue Thorin feels the strong arms of Dwalin and Dori lifting him to his feet and steadying him as he sways.

“Tell us what to do and we’ll do it,” Dwalin says, and he feels a momentary burst of surprise that is swiftly snuffed out by his shield-brother’s next words. “Just _help him._ ”

“Of course we will,” Elrond and Gandalf say in unison, as if insulted by the very implication that they would deny him aid.

“If they so much as twitch oddly, then I’ll have them off the cliff before they could blink,” Radagast adds, and even through his blurry vision Thorin can see the skeptical look Elrond shoots him.

“I do not meant to call you a liar, my friend, but I wonder how you could achieve such a task,” the Lord of Rivendell says, and Thorin laughs.

“You speak to one who dueled Durin’s Bane twice over,” he says as Dwalin helps him into Saruman’s old chair, greatly enjoying the look of surprise upon the elf’s features.

“Ah,” he says after a moment, and he looks at the Wizard with new appreciation that swiftly shifts to confusion as Radagast kneels down to pet a tiny mouse scampering out of the vegetation surrounding the rotunda. “Forgive me, your Majesty, if I find that somewhat. . . implausible.” He shoots another glance at Thorin. “Nazgûl-Slayer?”

“That explains a few things,” Balin says mildly, stepping up to stand beside Thorin. “Laddie, are you alright?” he whispers in Thorin’s ear.

“Well enough,” Thorin lies almost automatically, and Dwalin lightly cuffs him on the back of the head.

“Enough with the nonsense, Thorin,” he says, a thin veneer of frustration over his audible concern.

Thorin drops his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to ignore the growing pain throbbing with the beat of his heart. He knows exactly what happened. The Ring took its toll upon his mind, and now the undirected magical discharge of Saruman has torn open the scars of carrying the Ring for so long.

What he doesn’t know is what he’s supposed to do about it. He _cannot_ let Galadriel or any others touch his mind. Not because of a fear that they might hurt him, but because then they will see the imprints of death and fire in his memories, and he will not allow that to happen. They will not be touched by those decades of combat. Not while he still has strength to fight.

“We’re here, laddie,” Balin says, and then he feels a strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Uncle,” Fíli and Kíli say as one, and then he hears their footsteps as they move in closer, followed by the sounds of the rest of the Company stepping forward until he knows they make a loose circle around him. It should not be so reassuring as it is, and yet Thorin can already feel his breathing easing ever so slightly, though the ache in his head does not disappear.

Thorin lifts his head and meets Elrond’s eyes, and he remembers hearing somewhere that the Lord of Rivendell is the greatest healer still within Middle-earth. If there is anyone with the ability to help him now, it is the White Council.

“I bore the Ring of Power for sixty years, Elrond,” Thorin tells him tiredly. “For decades in which its master was waging war across all of Middle-earth in an attempt to reclaim it.”

The elf exchanges glances with Gandalf, and then swears softly but viciously in Sindarin. Thorin feels his eyebrows rise, at the same moment as Balin’s and Ori’s, if the two astonished gasps from the others in the Company who know the language are anything to go by.

“Saruman has been disposed of,” the Lady of Lórien announces unexpectedly, and almost everyone in the room jumps, including Thorin himself.

“My lady,” Thorin says, inclining his head and mentally noting that the elven lady’s white robes and golden hair remain perfectly arranged.

“Oh, that’s not ominous or anything,” Bofur mutters under his breath, and Thorin cannot help but agree.

“What happened to him?” Gandalf asks, looking rather alarmed himself, though Radagast is grinning into his beard.

“He has been delivered to the care of the warriors of Rivendell,” she says as she crosses over towards the table. “Glorfindel can hold him while we decide what is to be done with him.” She smiles then, and Thorin feels a momentary chill at the glint in her eyes. “He might have awoken on the way and had to be subdued. In the process, he obtained rather extensive injuries. My apologies.”

Thorin flings back his head and laughs at the expressions on the faces of the White Council, ranging from shock to alarm to grim amusement.

“You are terrifying,” Nori says, looking between Thorin and Galadriel as if he isn’t sure who scares him more.

“ _She’s beautiful, is what she is_ ,” Bifur replies in Khuzdul, and Thorin glances over to see the disabled toymaker looking up at the elven lady with awe upon his features.

“ _Thank you, kindly Bifur_ ,” Galadriel replies in the same tongue, and Bifur smiles with something approaching a blush rising upon his cheeks.

“That means he’s going to make you something delicate before we leave,” Bofur predicts.

“I will look forward to it,” the Lady of Lórien says, and Thorin can practically hear the Company’s silent _huh_ at the realization that elves do not have to necessarily be cruel and unfeeling.

“Galadriel,” Elrond says, and when she turns to him the healer says, “I think Thorin is suffering from chronic untreated psychic attacks caused by the Ring of Power.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Óin says, and Thorin hears Dwalin grunt in agreement and shift closer to him.

“It is not,” Galadriel says, and despite her innate, ever-present calm Thorin can hear the concern in her voice. Her eyes flick to him and hold his gaze, starlight reflecting in her eyes despite the cloudy sky above, and then Thorin feels a sensation like cool water through his mind, soothing the persistent aching pain, before she brushes too close to the edge of the memory of the day the Shire fell –

_Flame and green light in the sky, the Nazgûl screaming as they fall upon the rolling hills, Ori bellowing commands as he marches into the flame, the howls of agony abruptly cut short as the medical tents explode_

Galadriel gasps with shock, and that is enough to fling him from the memories, shoving violently out and pushing the Lady from his mind, and the previously-fading pain suddenly returns with full force, feeling like a spike of fire within his mind.

Galadriel is staring at him with tears brimming in her eyes and a terrible pity in her gaze and Thorin glares back angrily, replacing his defenses and stubbornly ignoring the sensation of peace he so briefly felt as she eased the agony building within his skull.

“ _Elbereth_ ,” Galadriel swears fervently, and then she shakes herself hard. “Thorin Oakenshield, I think we need explanations, if you don’t mind. The Shire is currently hale and well and has not suffered such destruction as I saw in your mind.”

“What happened?” Radagast and Bilbo demand instantly, Elrond and Gandalf only an instant behind.

Galadriel looks at Thorin, concern and fear warring upon her features, but Thorin sees to his shock that her fear is not _of_ him, but rather _for_ him.

“It was utterly destroyed,” she murmurs in horror, and everyone in the room turns to stare at him in shock and dawning realization.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I had watched the world burn,” Thorin says mildly.

“When?” Balin asks, and the elder Fundinul has a look of pain upon his features as he gazes at Thorin. “How is this possible? There is no trace of such a catastrophe…”

“Indeed,” Elrond says, and Thorin lets out a long sigh and looks down at the table, wondering how he should explain.

“This is my second time venturing on this Quest,” Thorin says after a long moment of hesitation. “The sixty years of war I spoke of occurred _after_ we reclaimed Erebor, after this year was done.”

“You reclaimed the mountain, then?”

“Yes,” Thorin says, and tries not to think of that awful day when Bilbo and Kíli and Fíli were laid to rest beneath the mountain. “But at far too high a price.”

There is a long, awkward silence, and then Galadriel walks over to stand beside him, kneeling on the cold stone floor without hesitation.

“Thorin,” she says softly, and then she reaches out and places a slender hand upon his. “I can help, if you will but let me. There are wounds in your mind that have gone unhealed for decades, each moment you bear the Ring only driving them deeper.”

 _A fault line_ , Thorin thinks, but he does not say the words aloud, instead saying quietly, “You know why I cannot let you.”

“Ach, Thorin, why not, for Mahal’s sake?” Dwalin says fiercely, and then he takes Thorin’s chin between his fingers and lifts it so their eyes meet. “You are injured, and elf or not, the lady may be the only one on Middle-earth who can help!”

Thorin pulls free, looking towards the ground and letting his hair fall over his face. “I cannot.”

“Thorin,” Dwalin says, his voice gentling. “You are in pain, all of us can see that. Why can you not – ”

“I cannot let it touch you!” Thorin shouts, swinging his gaze up to look into Dwalin’s eyes, willing him to understand. “I swore I would not let the Shadow touch you, and there is only darkness within my memories, and _I cannot allow it to hurt you_.”

“And we will not allow it to hurt you any more than it already has,” Dwalin replies, soft and sincere, and Thorin swallows hard and looks away.

“Thorin,” Galadriel says, and he meets her eyes with some trepidation, but despite the power that still lingers in their sapphire depths there is no touch within his mind. “I can promise to keep from investigating deeper into your memories than I must in order to heal you. Would that be acceptable?”

Thorin closes his eyes, feeling the burning pain in the back of his head and he knows that he _needs_ help, no matter what the consequences of it might be.

“If it’s not acceptable, then I’ll hit him over the head until it is,” Óin promises, and Thorin chuckles softly. However, despite the casual lilt to the words, Thorin knows he would not hesitate to follow through on that oath.

“Very well,” he says, opening his eyes and looking into Galadriel’s starry gaze. She nods, very slightly, and then there is the gentle cool of water soothing the throbbing agony, calming his restless thoughts.

But now that he does not have the desperate need to keep her from seeing into his mind to distract him, Thorin can feel the fear of the Ring tearing through his defenses and shredding his will to pieces, or the torture of Sauron’s mental attacks, and though the sensation of Galadriel’s healing is far different Thorin cannot so easily ignore the presence of a foreign being within his mind.

 _Thorin?_ Galadriel asks, her mental voice colored with concern, and Thorin realizes his breathing is shallow and his heart is throbbing in a swift, panicked rhythm. _Are you all right?_

 _The Ring_ , Thorin thinks back at her, or tries to. _I remember its touch, as it – as it –_

Thorin’s mental voice stutters and fails in the face of the dark, suffocating power within his mind, coiling malevolently around his heart and whispering its dark promises of glory and renewal even as it tears his mind to pieces –

“Thorin!”

Thorin cannot tell who calls his name, Galadriel or Balin or Dwalin or Bilbo or perhaps all four of them as well as the others, but his eyes open nevertheless to see the elven lady standing before him, looking into his eyes and the others arrayed around him, concern universally present in their eyes.

“Thorin, I need you to calm down,” Galadriel says, and only then does Thorin register the taste of blood in his mouth and realize that he bit through his lip in his panic. Thorin nods carefully, not trusting his voice, and then Bilbo places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, Thorin instinctively leaning into the touch.

Galadriel shoots him a look of pity and sympathy that Thorin instinctively resents before their eyes meet, but this time Thorin focuses instead on Dwalin’s strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly, Bilbo’s warmth soaking into him and warming his very bones, the looks of helpless concern on the eyes of the rest of the Company that tell him they would be tripping over themselves to help if only they knew how.

And though the burning touch of the Ring’s desolation within his mind does not ease, he can sense also the Company standing tall and unbowed beside him and he knows that they are no less fierce and stubborn than they were during the war, that they will protect him whatever may come, and it is that which keeps his panic at bay, the knowledge that he is surrounded by those who will give their lives to shield him, however unworthy of such a gift he may be.

When Galadriel finally breaks eye contact, there are tears in her eyes and respect as she looks at him, a single nod of acknowledgement. A very dwarven gesture, and Thorin is immensely glad of it.

“Will he be all right?” Kíli asks anxiously, and Galadriel musters up a smile as she looks at him.

“I have healed what I can in the time that I have,” she says reassuringly. “Once this war is over, I have ways of healing far more, with the help of Lord Elrond. Your uncle will be well, Prince Kíli.”

Kíli almost collapses with relief, and Bilbo gives him a slightly wobbly smile as he says, “I told you so, Kíli. Thorin will be fine.”

 _Thank you_ , Thorin mouths gratefully at Galadriel, and she nods and smiles at him.

“Right,” Óin says authoritatively, and Thorin almost groans. “To bed with you, your Majesty, you look awful.”

“I’ll have Lindir show you to your rooms,” Elrond says, walking down the stairs and calling for the doorwarden in Sindarin. Thorin stands, but instead of moving towards the stairs, he turns and walks towards Galadriel and the two Istari.

“If you intend to decide Saruman’s fate,” Thorin says as calmly as he can, “then you must be aware that his designs and assistance allowed the northern kingdom of Angmar to be restored and ultimately led to Sauron’s final victory.”

“Sauron _won_?” Radagast bursts out in alarm, and Thorin nods grimly.

“I didn’t exactly make it easy for him, however,” he says, feeling a slight, determined smile quirking his lips upwards.

“Saruman might not have returned as you did,” Gandalf points out reasonably. “If that is the case, we cannot hold him accountable for actions he has not technically committed.”

“However, you must keep him from committing those actions again,” Thorin reminds them. “I do not ask you to try him for something he has not done, but I _do_ ask that you bear in mind the danger that he poses.”

“We will,” Gandalf assures him.

Thorin inclines his head and turns towards the Company, seeing that Elrond has returned with Lindir. Dwalin’s sharp eyes linger on Thorin as he continues back to them, and as Thorin descends the steps following Lindir he insists upon staying to guard Thorin from behind.

The moment the Company move from the narrow Elven path back into the halls of Rivendell, they spread out into a standard guard arrangement with Thorin in the protected center position; Ori, Bombur, and Bilbo trip more than once trying to keep up with the pace of the march, but aside from a few muttered curses, they do not complain in the slightest.

“Here you are,” Lindir says, opening a door and handing Balin, who has taken the point position to allow Dwalin to directly flank Thorin, a small key. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” the elf continues, though he seems somewhat nervous interacting with dwarrow directly.

“Thank you, laddie,” Balin says, sending him a cheerful smile. “That’ll be all, thank you for your hospitality.”

“You’re welcome,” Lindir says automatically. “I can have someone alert you for dinner, if you’d like.”

“We’d like that, thank you,” Balin replies cheerfully, though his smile flickers a little when he looks back over at Thorin.

“Pleasure,” Lindir says, bowing and sweeping back down the hallway with classic Elven elegance, though he seems somewhat less stiff than before.

“That was actually a civil conversation,” Glóin says with considerable surprise in his voice, alternately staring between Balin and the receding elf.

“Not the time,” Dwalin says gruffly, ignoring Bilbo’s irritated “ _Dwarves_ ” and herding the others inside the rooms, which are the same as the ones allotted to them previously, although apparently Elrond had ordered Lindir to give them the key to their room this time around, as Thorin doesn’t recall them having it before.

The moment Dwalin closes the door behind them, he turns to Thorin and says with quiet, gruff sympathy, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Thorin blinks, thrown. “I told you my reasons – ”

“Yes, and I'm certain those we at least part of your reasons for keeping this secret, but I also know you, and I can tell when you're lying. There is something else.” He looks at Thorin with an agonizing gentleness. “Tell me, Thorin. I promise I won't be. . . whatever you think my reaction will be.”

Thorin cannot meet his eyes. “I thought you would fear me, fear for your safety knowing you journey with one who has fallen to the gold madness, one who has carried the Ring of Power for decades on end, who has let the touch of that fell device into his mind, one who has seen years upon years of war, one who is so – ” His voice fails him on the word _broken_ , and he closes his eyes tightly to ward off the tears threatening his composure.

Thorin almost leaps out of his skin when he feels Dwalin's strong arms encircling him, pulling him in close beside his shield-brother. He tries to force himself to relax, tries to still his racing heart, but try as he might memories of the war dance in the edges of his vision and he cannot blink them away.

“Shh, Thorin,” Dwalin says reassuringly, and Thorin mumbles weakly, “I thought it was Balin who was supposed to take care of anything to do with actual emotions.”

“This situation calls for it,” Dwalin shoots back, and then he gently tilts Thorin's head up so their eyes meet. “Mahal, Thorin,” he says, all humor gone from his voice now. “ _Sixty years_.”

Thorin doesn’t entirely know what he’s supposed to say to that, so he remains silent, closing his eyes and trying to still his shaking hands.

After a long moment, Dwalin gently taps their foreheads together and releases him, and Thorin opens his eyes to see the entire Company watching him, though when they realize he is aware of it Bofur immediately turns to Ori and strikes up a conversation about Shire plant life, even though neither of them actually knows anything about plants, and then Kíli nudges Fíli and mutters something about Dori’s hair that sounds vaguely mischievous and also like something the old Thorin would have put a stop to but that this Thorin is only too happy to pretend he didn’t hear.

“Drink this,” Óin says without preamble, shoving a vial of medicine into Thorin’s hand.

“What – ?”

“Sedative. You need it,” he says when Thorin glares at him, folding his arms and settling into a stance that Thorin knows from experience means the old healer isn’t about to budge the slightest inch on whatever he’s set his mind on. Not even Thorin’s legendary stubbornness can match Óin in a battle of sheer willpower.

“But we haven’t had dinner yet!” Bombur protests, sounding scandalized at the very thought.

“He needs sleep more than dinner,” Óin says, unmoved by this protest. He looks back over at Thorin, and his gaze softens ever so slightly. “Go to sleep, melhekhel. No one’s going to attack us tonight.”

Thorin bites back a retort to the effect of “you cannot possibly know that for a fact” and instead nods to the room at large and disappears into one of the bedrooms adjoining the main room, closing the door firmly behind him. He briefly examines the small vial Óin handed to him, before sighing and tilting the glass bottle back, grimacing slightly at the taste, which is just as foul as he recalls it being. Thorin collapses onto the overly large bed, not even bothering to remove his boots as he closes his eyes and lets the exhaustion and stress of the past few hours overwhelm him.

* * *

_Darkness surrounds him, suffocating and despairing, the walls of Khazad-dûm seeming to swallow the light of their torches just as they muffle sounds, concealing the location of their companions from the would-be rescuers; only the steadily-growing blue glow of Orcrist ensures that they are even heading in remotely the right direction, unless they are rather moving straight for an orc camp instead._

_Thorin shoves that thought firmly away, refocusing on the path ahead, even keen dwarven dark-vision unable to pierce this gloom. In the wake of Erebor’s fall, the resistance operations relocated to the Shire, the magic hovering about that place somehow concealing their operations to the spies of Mordor attempting to locate them, but Balin suggested that, with Durin’s Bane now dead, they could possibly reclaim Khazad-dûm and use the most ancient of their kingdoms to hold against the Shadow._

_And now Thorin is here, in the darkness of their former glory, with only Dáin and Ori and Óin by his side, in this kingdom that has already claimed so many of their race, attempting to find where Balin, Bombur, Nori, and Dori have secreted themselves with the last of the reclamation force and rescue them before it is too late…_

_“Over here!” Ori bellows, and then there is the sound of his mace slamming into an orc as it charges at him, and another lunges for Thorin only to find Orcrist’s blazing blade already decapitating it as Thorin swings around, eyes searching desperately but all he finds is nothing but darkness, where –_

_“Thorin!”_

_Dáin shakes him by the shoulder and then he can see the flickering torchlight coming from a doorway to his right, how had he missed it?_

_“Come on!” he orders, and then they are descending into the fray, black blood spurting and staining the stones around them._

_Ori swears violently, and Thorin spins around instantly to see the scribe striking the offending orc across the head with his mace and pressing a hand to his injury, a slight cut across the left arm, not life-threatening._

_Thorin feels the relief sweep through him at the knowledge that he has not led another of his people into death. He has lost too many of the Company already, he cannot lose more._

_And then they are through into the room where Balin and the others barricaded themselves, and there are far too many dwarven bodies lying on the ground, crimson blood intermixing with black on the ground, but the others look mostly unhurt, though Dori has a long, shallow slash across his face and Bombur is already sporting a magnificent black eye._

_Thorin spins to take out one of the orcs aiming an arrow for Nori, Orcrist humming through the air and promising death to their enemies. “Get out of here!” he commands over the chaos of battle._

_“Working on it!” Nori yells back, spinning around and slashing the throat of an orc approaching from behind before flinging it into the skull of an orc seeking Ori’s back._

_Thorin blocks a sword descending towards his throat, twisting it from the creature’s hands and smoothly decapitating it before whirling around, Orcrist swinging in a deadly arc to slash through his attackers at waist level. Another lunges for him, and he swiftly reverses his swing to catch the creature across the chest, blood welling up from the injury as it collapses._

_Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin spots another archer and instantly whirls, almost absently running another orc through as he tracks where the archer is aiming, and at the realization he feels suddenly sick with horror._

_Balin._

_The old advisor spins his sword in a swift and deadly arc, belying his true age as he ruthlessly cuts through Mordor’s ranks, unaware of the arrow aimed for his back._

_Thorin slashes through the oncoming orc and lunges for the archer, but just as he is about to bring Orcrist down something halts him, and Thorin shakes his head hard, breaking the Ring’s control, and then the orc topples to the ground, bow neatly severed in two, but in that brief moment of immobility the arrow was released, and Thorin can only watch helplessly as the elder of Fundin’s sons falls to the ground, blood shining in the moonlight pouring into the Chamber of Records._

_He hears Dori scream a fierce denial, lunging forward with sword and bolas blurring in the air around him as he stands above Balin, trying futilely to defend him._

_“Dori!” Nori roars, and then he lunges forward and grabs his brother’s arm, shaking him fiercely. “You cannot help him now, you need to get out of here – !”_

_And then Dori is stumbling and almost falling as Nori shoves him to one side, out of the way of the mace in the hands of the cave-troll that bursts through the doors._

_Nori lets out a short cry of pain and then goes silent as the mace slams into him, Dori howling in fury as the bolas wrap around the creature’s leg, the weaver dropping the sword to heave with both hands on the bolas, pulling the troll down with a roar of exertion. Thorin lunges forward, Orcrist burying herself hilt-deep in the creature’s eye, and Dori stabs it in the throat, the creature howling in pain before going still._

_Dori pulls his sword free and drops beside his brother, but Thorin seizes him around the arm and pulls him to his feet, saying in sharp tones of command, “Dori, we need to get out of here now!” even though it takes everything he has to tear his eyes from Balin’s body lying in the moonlight._

_“Come on!” Dáin roars from somewhere by the doors, and Thorin turns in time to see him headbutting an orc as he gestures for Thorin and Dori._

_Thorin pulls Dori towards the doors before an orc-sword forces him to release the weaver in order to defend himself, Orcrist flashing through the air as she brings down the attackers. Dori snarls in rage as he takes out his opponents, tears brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over onto his cheeks._

_“Come on, we have to move!” Bombur shouts, shoving one of the few other survivors behind him as the ladle in his hands blocks the descending sword, and Thorin cuts the creature down as it tries to counterattack._

_“We can’t just – ” Dori starts, but Thorin just shoves him towards the doors, opening his mouth to respond before his eyes are suddenly drawn to a shell of black metal as one of the orcs flings it towards them, mouth stretched in a horrible grin of triumph._

_Thorin reaches out to shove Bombur behind him, but then the jolly dwarf’s eyes snap to the metal shell and he shoves Thorin hard towards the doors, sending him into Dáin and Dori and knocking them down, though he manages to catch himself on the doors as he tries to lunge towards the shell and Bombur in the center of the room, unsure of what that device is but knowing for a fact that it is dangerous beyond measure –_

_And then the metal shell detonates in an explosion just as bright and fierce as Erebor’s fall, the shockwave throwing him to the ground as fire consumes the Chamber of Records and all within –_

Thorin awakens with a scream on his lips, his heart racing and his hands shaking with the panic building in his throat, _Balin Nori Bombur_ a frantic litany in his mind even though he knows with a terrible certainty that they are dead, he cannot stop the need to flee back to the Chamber and search for them, as if determination will be enough to revive the dead.

“Thorin!” a voice cries out, and then there is a flash of light and he cannot stop the cry that falls from his lips, because Ori and Óin and Dáin and Dori and all the others who managed to get out before the Chamber exploded are still _out there_ , and he knows the flash that heralds the death knell of yet more, fire always the end for the dwarrow of Erebor, always –

“Thorin!” the voice cries out again, and then there is a hand in his hair, gently turning his head to face him.

And Thorin stares in shock, for the face is _Dwalin’s_ , and even in the faint candlelight he recognizes the face of his shield-brother, but this is _impossible_.

“No,” he whispers faintly, shaking his head as he reaches out, “no, you’re de – ” His voice breaks on the word, and then Thorin shakes his head, closing his eyes tightly.

Rivendell. He is in Rivendell, it is the year 2959 of the Third Age, and it was a nightmare only. Nothing more.

Thorin opens his eyes to find Dwalin studying him closely, and when he recognizes that the mood has passed the younger Fundinul nods grimly, resting his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and simply sitting in silence with him.

That is, until the door abruptly slams open and the entirety of the Company bursts in at once, Thorin’s heart leaping strangely at the sight of Bilbo leading the charge, his gentle Hobbit features narrowed with concern and fear.

“What happened?” Óin and Bilbo demand practically in unison, glaring alternately at Thorin and Dwalin.

“Just a nightmare,” Dwalin says immediately, and Balin snorts.

“If that was ‘just a nightmare’, brother, I’ll eat my sword,” the advisor says, and he rises from the bed on the other side of the room that he was apparently sharing with Dwalin to sit next to Thorin. “You were screaming my name in your sleep, laddie,” he says, and his voice is gentle but Thorin still flinches at the reminder of scarlet blood in silver moonlight.

“You died,” he says softly, and Balin makes a soft “ah” in his throat, looking at Thorin with sudden understanding.

“I’m right here, don’t worry,” he says after a momentary hesitation of figuring out what to say. And then, horribly soft but also harsh, somehow, “Who else?”

“You can’t just ask him to-to relive – ” Bilbo sputters angrily, and Balin looks as if he is about to respond but Óin speaks first.

“The more we know about what happened, the more we know about how to help him,” the healer explains. “And, unfortunately, the only one who can provide that information is Thorin himself.”

Bilbo scowls darkly, glaring at the floor as if he’s trying to carve holes in it.

“Nori,” Thorin says suddenly, and several people jump in surprise. “Bombur. A dozen or so others, but their names I do not know, or simply do not remember.”

“I’m not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it, so quit your worrying,” Nori says instantly, and Bombur nods his agreement.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says, looking up at Balin, whose confusion is visible on his face, but Thorin doesn’t give the advisor the chance to speak. “I could have killed the archer, if I had been faster, but I…”

Balin heaves a sigh and wraps his arm comfortingly around Thorin’s shoulders. “Laddie, we all make mistakes on the battlefield,” he says reassuringly. “I’m not going to hold you accountable for not being able to get there in time.”

Thorin looks away, towards the graceful Elven carvings on the stone floor and the shadows cast by the flickering candle, and murmurs, half to himself, “Khazad-dûm’s stones are bought with blood, after all.”

“ _Khazad-dûm?_ ” Dwalin says in shock. “What in _Durin’s name_ were we doing in _there_?”

“Khazad-dûm?”

“The Khuzdul name for Moria,” Thorin explains to Bilbo, and then he says quietly, “We didn’t have much of a choice, Dwalin. Erebor had fallen and we needed a stronghold to oppose Mordor.”

“Could we not have reclaimed Erebor again?” Ori asks, and Thorin shakes his head, his gaze dropping back to the floor.

“Why not?” Kíli asks with a youthful hope still coloring his words.

“Because Erebor was entirely destroyed.”

A shocked silence greets his pronouncement, and then Bofur says, “Impossible. Any mountain kingdom cannot be destroyed as you say. I don’t care _what_ you do to it, it’s a mountain and it’s not going to be coming down.”

“Put it this way: Balrogs of Morgoth and ancient volcanoes are not a good combination,” Thorin says darkly, and looks up to see that Bofur, their mining expert, has gone pale.

“It broke the magma seal?” Bofur asks, sounding considerably alarmed, and Thorin shrugs helplessly.

“All I know is that the Balrog was destroyed and then Erebor exploded, killing everyone close to her.” He bows his head, idly tracing patterns on the bedsheets. “Glóin, Bofur, and Bifur, you were still inside, trying to restabilize a fault or something of the like. Dwalin, you had gone to the gates to hold the attacking army there long enough for evacuees to escape, but you were killed by a cave-troll not long before the mountain was destroyed.”

There is another long pause, Dwalin reaching out to grip his other shoulder, and then Glóin says in a choked gasp of horror, “But if there was an attacking army, you would have kept everyone back behind the gates, which means that you would have had so little advance warning that you couldn’t have gotten everyone out – ”

Thorin swallows hard, closing his eyes, and then he says, tone a bit harsher than he would have liked but he doesn’t know how to stop it, “No. No, we couldn’t.”

“Well,” Ori says after a horribly long pause, and then says something horrifically obscene in Khuzdul, and Dori cries out, “ _Ori!_ ” in scandalized shock, but the youngest Ri brother is unrepentant.

“Be happy he hasn’t starting using a mace yet,” Thorin interjects, looking up to Dori in time to catch the look of horror upon his face and then the considering expression on Ori’s.

“Oh, that sounds _excellent_ ,” he says, and Nori laughs and draws his little brother under his arm.

“My dear Ori,” he announces cheerfully, “I’ll win you away from that fussy old hen yet.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll still keep up with my knitting and histories,” Ori reassures him from under Nori’s arm, and Thorin smiles weakly as the rest of the Company roars with laughter.

“Please tell me that and the Shire is it,” Bofur says hopefully, and Thorin laughs, and if it’s a touch hysterical Thorin doesn’t particularly care.

“Not even remotely close,” Thorin says, and at the shocked stares he says, “I don’t mean sixty years of occasional combat, I mean sixty years of _constant, continual warfare_. There is far more that I have seen that you could not imagine in your worst nightmares.”

“‘I have watched the world burn,’” Fíli echoes quietly, and exchanges a worried look with his younger brother.

A long silence descends upon the room, no one else seeming to know what to say and Thorin too busy shoving aside memories to help.

“Right,” Bilbo says authoritatively, clapping his hands together to make a noise loud enough to startle those in the room into leaping nearly a foot in the air, Thorin included. “Dori, Fíli, Kíli, could you come with me, please?”

As he leads the other three out of the room, Thorin and Dwalin exchange confused looks, which only become more pronounced as the small group return laden down with all of the pillows and bedding from the other rooms.

“What in Durin’s name?” Glóin asks blankly, and Kíli shrugs as he deposits his burden on the floor.

“We,” Bilbo says, sitting down and motioning the others to join him, “are having a slumber party.”

“A what?” Thirteen confused voices reply (or rather twelve plus Bifur’s Khuzdul) and the Hobbit rolls his eyes.

“ _Dwarves_ ,” he says, sounding fondly exasperated as he starts distributing the bedding. “A slumber party is when a group of friends, usually young children, but you lot act like children most of the time anyway, so who cares, stay over for the night at someone’s house and bring all their blankets and pillows over and sleep together on the floor.”

“Why the floor?” Balin asks, sounding actually interested in Hobbit customs and Thorin resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Because the point is to sleep together in a huge pile,” Bilbo explains, “to feel secure and take comfort in each other’s presence.”

“And to conserve body heat, most likely,” Óin says, and Bilbo shrugs.

“But the point is, we sleep all together,” he says as he takes his pillow, bedroll, and blanket and proceeds to wrap himself in it.

“Thorin in the middle,” Dwalin says, and before Thorin entirely knows what is happening he’s in the middle of a pile of dwarrow, with the solid warmth of their race surrounding him, and Thorin feels oddly both trapped and protected at once.

It helps that Bilbo has cleverly arranged himself so his head is resting against Thorin’s fur coat and their fingers are intertwined beneath the blankets, where none of the others can see.

* * *

To Thorin’s surprise, the others refrain from discussing the sudden revelations of yesterday at the breakfast table, though he can still hear the quiet sounds of clothing moving as various other members of the Company signal to each other in Iglishmêk.

“Good morning,” Elrond says as he sweeps into the room, and then stops in the doorway as his eyes catch on the table in the center of the room. Thorin hides his smile in his tea, though he can hear Dwalin’s stifled snickers beside him.

“Is there something wrong?” Galadriel says innocently, looking up from where she is cutting her breakfast ham with all the delicate grace of one of the High Elves.

“There’s meat,” Elrond says after a long moment of silence.

“Indeed there is,” she replies, turning to Bombur and saying in polite, if slightly mispronounced, Khuzdul, “ _You have done a wonderful job with the seasoning, by the way._ ”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Bombur says faintly, exchanging a mildly confused look with his brother across the table.

“Where did you learn our language?” Glóin asks, sounding belligerent but also somewhat awed, which Thorin is unsurprised by, considering that the greatest paragon of untouchable Elven dignity is currently seated at a table with thirteen dwarrow, in between Bifur and Dwalin, all of whom still smell faintly of troll, eating ham and porridge as if it is the finest meal of Lothlórien.

Thorin personally thinks that the Lady of Lórien is a selfless defender of their race who is an excellent ally in his personal quest to have his race receive the recognition they are long since due, without a world-ending war, if at all possible. She is also profoundly terrifying and would rather die a thousand deaths than let evil take one more step into Middle-earth.

Needless to say, he _thoroughly_ approves.

(And perhaps some of the events that his approval stems from have not yet come to pass, but the Galadriel who almost used up her entire life-force defending Erebor from the Witch-King himself whilst Thorin was incapacitated is the same Galadriel who sits with them now, simply without the opportunity to do what she has done for them. And if he can, he will not allow that opportunity ever to come to pass.)

“I learned it from Durin III, in a time when Khazad-dûm was still crowned in starlight and her glory appeared untouchable by any creatures of this earth.” She tilts her head, considering. “Although, it was not truly a creature of this earth which eventually brought her to her knees.”

“Galadriel,” Elrond interjects when it looks like she is about to continue. “You are sitting at a table with thirteen dwarves, eating their food which they have prepared themselves, if Lindir has informed me of events properly.”

“Is this a problem?” the Lady replies calmly, with a faint smile upon her lips that says it will _become_ a problem if Elrond keeps talking.

Wisely, the Lord of Rivendell decides discretion is the better part of valor and simply moves to sit at the table, Dori and Balin swiftly clearing a place for him as Bombur goes to fetch something for the elf lord from the kitchens.

“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” Elrond starts, sounding alarmed, and the Company just snickers.

“Believe me, you’re never not going to be interrupting his meal and even elves can’t go that long without food,” Bofur says cheerfully, before he begins humming a merry little tune under his breath.

“Oh, not this again,” Bilbo moans, dropping his head in his hand as Fíli and Kíli pick up the tune of “That’s What Bilbo Baggins Hates”.

Thorin pats him on the back, slightly awkwardly as he tries to keep ahold of his tea mug at the same time. “There, there, Master – Bilbo,” he corrects himself hastily at the glare from the Hobbit.

Bilbo narrows his eyes at him and waggles his fork mock-threateningly. “I’m watching you,” he warns, and Dwalin suddenly suffers from a mysterious and intense coughing fit on his other side.

“Why do you insist on calling him ‘Master’, anyway?” Nori asks, and Thorin freezes, remembering the icy wind that whipped around the mountain and stole his breath from his lungs.

“Let’s not talk about that,” he says hastily, and he sees Dwalin exchange a weighty look with Balin out of the corner of his eye.

“Very well, laddie,” Balin says after a moment, though Thorin knows that he’s going to be cornered at some point and pressed for details. Anyone who thinks Dwalin is the more frightening of the two Fundinuls has never encountered Balin in the midst of an interrogation or a political discussion.

Thorin studiously studies the tabletop, ignoring the quiet hum of conversation building up around him, though the sound of Elrond’s pleased exclamation at his first taste of Bombur’s cooking manages to bring a fleeting smile to his lips. He catches the flicker of light off the silver tendrils on Sting’s hilt, and suddenly comes to a realization he should have had _far_ sooner.

“You need sword lessons,” Thorin says abruptly, and immediately the conversations around the table fall silent.

“I do?” Bilbo says blankly, at the same moment as Elrond says, “You have a sword?”

“Technically, it’s a – ” he turns to Balin “ – what did you call it?”

“Letter opener,” the advisor says, and continues in irritation at Dwalin’s snort, “and it’s entirely true.”

“I’m certain of that,” Dwalin says sarcastically, and Thorin rolls his eyes.

“Close enough,” he informs Dwalin, “and yes, Bilbo, you do need sword lessons, you’re marching off into the Wild and probably straight into as many orcs as Sauron can muster in the time he has available to him.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Sauron is intelligent,” Thorin says grimly, setting down his mug and spreading his hands flat on the table. “He might not have known at the time that I had also returned, but he is clever enough to realize that allowing our Quest to succeed and letting me live would be a dangerous and crippling blow to his plans. He is cunning enough not to allow that to happen, and thus he sent his greatest forces, his Ringwraiths, against me at once, rather than risk sending a lesser group and alerting others to his existence. Which is also why he ordered the orc pack hunting us to attack earlier than anticipated, just in case the Nazgûl somehow fail to accomplish their goal. The fact that his attack coincided with our capture by the trolls was mere chance.” Thorin scowls darkly at the table. “And, unfortunately, now he _does_ know I have also returned, and he’ll be adjusting his motives accordingly.”

Galadriel and Elrond sigh in synchrony and Thorin looks up to see both of them with furrowed brows and intent eyes focused upon the horizon.

“Unfortunately so, I fear,” Galadriel says, and though there is still detachment within her there is also weariness. “It is a hard and dangerous road you will walk, you and all your kin,” and here she turns her weighty gaze upon every member of the Company seated around the table, and Thorin swallows hard and blinks rapidly to keep his composure.

“What will you choose?” the Lady of Lórien asks softly, and barely has she finished speaking when Bilbo speaks up.

“I,” he says, calm and clear and strong as ever, _Mahal why, why must he do this_ , “swore to follow Thorin Oakenshield, whatever may come. And I am not going to go back on that now. I am Baggins of Bag End, and we Baggins do not go back on our word. I will follow you, Thorin, even if we walk straight into a war with Sauron himself.”

“As will we,” the Company says in perfect unison.

 _Loyalty, honor, a willing heart_ , Thorin thinks as he looks at a group of thirteen mismatched dwarrow and one lone Hobbit, none of whom signed on for a war with a rising Sauron but all of whom are willing to follow him into the fire simply because they know he will not back away and they would fight with him if they can.

Except their deaths dance before his eyes, bodies lying cold on the battlefield and only three of them entombed within stone as is proper for their race, the rest either left where they lay or destroyed in the fires of war.

And he cannot let them fight this war. Not again.

 _You’re not getting us away_ , Dwalin says, accompanied by fierce mental nods from the rest of the Company.

 _Maybe, but I must try,_ Thorin shoots back and then he stands before he can lose himself to memories, to address the Company before it is entirely too late.

“Your aid is an unlooked-for blessing,” Thorin says, fixing his eyes on a point on the wall behind Nori lest he meet their eyes and lose whatever tenuous hold he has on the present, “and it means more to me than words can ever express, but I _cannot_ allow you to come with me.”

There is a long silence, and then Balin and Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli (though Óin nudges his brother to silence him) open their mouths to protest but are cut off by Bilbo asking, quietly, “Why?”

Thorin looks over at the Hobbit, and to his surprise he finds no trace of pity, just sympathy and something vaguely resembling curiosity that Thorin cannot name. “Why can’t you let us come with you?”

“Because you died,” Thorin says softly, scarcely audible over the sounds of the birdsong in the morning air.

“What, all of us?” Bofur bursts out before he can quite stop himself, and Thorin feels a bitter smile, full of dark humour, twitching his lips upwards.

“More of everyone in Middle-earth,” he replies grimly, and the faces of the Company and of the two elves are truly something to behold in their shock.

“When you say everyone – ” Nori starts, and Thorin sighs miserably, wishing he could bury his face in his hands or, better yet, flee this place and try to find somewhere where he can be without the sight of fire and death flickering before his eyes.

“I mean every single member of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth,” he says quietly, affixing his eyes on the table so he does not have to see the dawning horror in his kin’s eyes. Thorin clenches his fists at his sides, trying to ignore the tremors and the nausea he can feel creeping back into his throat.

A hand rests on his shoulder, and Thorin shrugs it away, stepping back from the table and starting to move towards the door.

“Thorin? Where are you going?”

Thorin forces himself to halt and turn to face Bilbo, though he can’t bring his eyes up from where they rest on the elegantly carved stone beneath his feet.

“I just need to be alone for a while,” he murmurs softly, too quietly for them to hear, and then he clears his throat and says, slightly louder this time, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll meet you when you’re done eating.”

Thorin doesn’t wait to hear the response, just turns and swiftly walks into the graceful Elven labyrinth of Rivendell, letting his feet take them where they will rather than try to direct himself anywhere, trying to lose himself in the quiet and peace that suffuses this place.

Needless to say, it doesn’t work. Rivendell is beautiful, but it is an Elven beauty and while he knows there is no danger here, his memories of combat in the inner courtyard, of having his will stolen from him until he could not tell the difference between friend and foe, tell him otherwise.

It surprises him only slightly when he lifts his head and realizes he is ascending the short stairway to where the shards of Narsil lie upon a stone platter held by the statue of a woman, directly across from the painting of that fateful duel between Isildur and Sauron.

Thorin feels his mouth suddenly go bone-dry at the sight of the small golden band around Sauron’s finger, the feel of darkness digging its claws into his very soul and whispers (promises) of death and destruction in the back of his mind, slowing dragging him ever downward into despair.

Thorin doesn’t realize he’s reaching out towards the painted Ring until his hand touches the surface of the image and he blinks, thrown out of his memories. His shaking hand rests against the streak of painted gold and he feels a deep, crushing relief but also a sharp pang of loss that he tries to shove as deeply into the back of his mind as possible.

“Thorin?”

Dwalin’s voice sounds calm, as if he’s merely asking a casual question, but there’s a note of concern and alarm that he can’t quite hide, and when Thorin turns, his shield-brother’s relief is almost palpable.

“When did you get here?” Thorin asks, because he doesn’t recall hearing Dwalin following behind him, and the other merely looks at him with an unreadable look beginning to form in his eyes.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past ten minutes,” the younger Fundinul says softly, and even as his hand moves to rest on Thorin’s shoulder his eyes flick upwards to the painting behind Thorin. “So, that’s the trinket responsible for all this, then?”

The question is more statement than request for clarification, but Thorin nods nonetheless, feeling a shiver of cold running through him even as they stand in the warmth of Imladris, far from the Ring’s dark taint.

Dwalin squeezes his shoulder, the concerned flick of his eyes back down to Thorin saying, _Steady, brother_ , even as he comments, “You know, it’s not exactly terrifying. You’d think that Sauron would at least make the key to his power look even a little scary, as opposed to – ” he gestures at the image. “A tiny gold bauble.”

Thorin huffs out a weak laugh, slightly bitter from the memories of that same gold bauble corrupting his heart and stealing his mind from him. “Aye, but it more than makes up for its unassuming appearance in person, believe me.”

Dwalin’s eyes move back to his and hold, grey boring into blue, and he looks as if he’s about to speak, but Thorin starts speaking again before he can.

“I remember… how it would try to twist my thoughts against my kin and friends, trying to steal my mind and will until I was a helpless pawn in its master’s service, and even though I fought it, there were times it succeeded, when I fought the very people I had sworn to protect and I saw nothing but an enemy. There were times, when I – when I _wanted_ to let it take control, if only to stop the bloodshed, when I wanted to hand Sauron his greatest weapon in exchange for the lives of the innocents caught in the crossfire, and it wasn’t the Ring’s influence twisting my will, Dwalin, it was _me_ , and I – ”

Thorin breaks off as Dwalin gently places his hand on the back of his neck and tilts their foreheads together, Dwalin’s other hand resting comfortingly on his back.

“Listen to me, Thorin,” Dwalin says softly, and Thorin can hear him struggling to keep his composure. “You were placed in an impossible position, and the fact that you wanted to find a way to stop people from dying just means that you care about them and that their lives _mean_ something to you, and you never need apologize for compassion. As for the rest – ” Dwalin sighs, and then continues with only the faintest hesitation in his voice, “I don’t truly know what the Ring can do, Thorin, but I saw how the Wizards reacted, and I think I can draw my own conclusions from that.” He pulls back, resting his hands of Thorin’s shoulders and looking deeply into his eyes. “You were given a task harder than anyone else’s, and yet you fought it, and you _kept_ fighting it, and perhaps you occasionally fell to its control but I would stake my beard that you never let it control you for long. To manage all of that, and to have seen what you have, to have watched everyone you care for die in front of you – ” He shakes his head in disbelief. “To be quite honest, Thorin, I don’t think I could have done it. To fight for years on end and only occasionally lose your footing – that’s not weakness, Thorin. That’s _strength_.” Dwalin musters up a grin and gently smacks him on the shoulder. “Aye?”

“Aye,” Thorin says automatically, his mind whirling with what Dwalin’s just said to him, and his shield-brother grins at him, and this time it’s far more real.

“Nah, you haven’t quite got it yet,” he says, and slings his arm around Thorin’s shoulders. “That’s okay, though. I’ll be perfectly happy to reprise it if you need me to.”

Thorin lightly punches him on the arm, mostly out of reflex, but at Dwalin’s smile and the light in his eyes he seriously considers hitting him harder if only to snap his shield-brother out of whatever strange mood he’s currently in.

Light Elven footsteps sound on the stairs and Thorin glances over to see Lord Elrond ascending the steps, and the elf nods to himself as he spots them on the landing.

“We’ve prepared for the lessons, although if you wish to be alone, another of your companions can teach him,” Elrond says, and Thorin shakes his head and begins moving towards the stairs with Dwalin at his side.

“I can teach him, it’s perfectly fine,” he replies, and then, offhand, “You might want to reforge that. We’ll be needing it.”

Elrond glances towards the shards and makes a soft “ah” in his throat. “You know where Aragorn is, then?”

“Not a clue,” Thorin says as he descends the steps, “but I’m almost certain Arwen does, or at least a general location, and I’ll wager she’s headed off to find him and any other Rangers she can in order to fight Sauron as effectively as possible.”

“I’ll set a group of metalworkers to it, then,” Elrond says, and then he glances between Thorin and Dwalin. “Forgive me, but did you not say that you wished to be alone?” Thorin snorts. “The day Dwalin lets me go off by myself will be the day Mount Doom freezes over.”

“True,” Dwalin agrees.

Elrond doesn’t laugh, but there’s a bit of a smile hovering at his lips and he seems slightly happier as he leads them into a large courtyard with archery targets set up along the walls, which Kíli and Ori are using to practice their aim, though not much can be done about the fact that Ori still uses stones for ammunition.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo says the instant they enter, and when Thorin smiles reassuringly at him Bilbo practically sags with relief.

“Thorin?” Gandalf calls out, and Thorin turns to see the two Wizards sitting to one side with Galadriel, all three looking deeply troubled.

“What is it?” he asks instantly, and Gandalf looks slightly conflicted about responding but Radagast replies instantly, “We’ve been interrogating Saruman, and there’s signs of… trouble.”

“Saruman speaks as if he has been creating an army within Isengard, and that he has already accomplished all that is necessary for Sauron’s victory.”

Thorin brings his hand up to strike his forehead, muttering angrily at himself in Khuzdul.

“How is that possible?” Balin asks immediately. “Even the most brilliant minds need time to establish their plans. He has not had the time to accomplish enough.”

“Except he already _knows_ all the designs he invented before, all he needs to do is write them down and set a team of orcs onto constructing them,” Thorin grumbles darkly, and he runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

Galadriel mutters something to quiet to catch, and then adds, “Saruman seems far more powerful than he should be. I can barely hold him, and to do so continually taxes me. Yesterday, he could channel his power without his staff to assist him. Do you have any ideas as to how this might be possible?”

“He might have been taught by the Witch-King,” Thorin suggests, shrugging helplessly. “Truthfully, I know very little of magic and sorcery, only that which I can use to defend against the sorcery of the restored Angmar.”

“That is unfortunately possible, and I know too little of fell sorcery to be able to judge,” Elrond says, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

“In which case, the Witch-King might have been taught in return,” Radagast says, and Thorin nods grimly.

“Well, it seems clear what we must do,” Gandalf says, rising to his feet. “Investigate the secrets of Isengard and determine the fell workings of that place.”

“Word of advice: if you see anything glowing sickly green, get as far away from it as possible,” Thorin says. “That is a sign of the presence of sorcery from Angmar, and I have seen the workings of that fell kingdom break the power of one of the Three.”

“Thank you, Thorin,” Galadriel says with an inclination of her head.

“Well, I should probably leave,” Radagast says, getting to his feet even as he reaches out and plucks a berry from a nearby bush to give a small field mouse.

“Mellon, we do not leave until the Company departs,” Elrond says, but Radagast shakes his head.

“I’m not heading to Isengard.”

“No,” Thorin says with finality, and Radagast glares at him.

“You know the danger as well as I – better, in fact. I must do this.”

“What – ?” Elrond asks in confusion, and Thorin scowls.

"Radagast means to confront the Balrog that sleeps within Khazad-dûm,” Thorin says, and all eyes abruptly snap to the Brown Wizard.

“I know its weaknesses and how to kill it now,” the Maia says calmly. “And this creature _must_ be destroyed, even if it costs my life.” He glances over at Thorin. “You’re not the only one allowed to risk your life, Thorin. My life against the thousands who would die if this creature escapes as it did before – I cannot risk such a tragedy occurring ever again.”

Thorin draws in a shuddering breath and looks away, the desperate feeling of needing to prevent events that have already happened terribly familiar to him.

“Very well,” he whispers, and Radagast nods to him, sweeping out with a promise of safe return that Thorin knows all too well he cannot guarantee.

A small hand rests on his shoulder, and Thorin looks up to see Bilbo standing next to him with a comforting smile on his face. “He’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly, and then his voice turns gruff in an imitation of Balin’s. “Trust us, eh laddie?”

Thorin chuckles, a little weakly, and then starts walking towards the center of the courtyard, into the space cleared for sword training.

“Thorin?”

Thorin turns, seeing concern suddenly in Gandalf’s eyes. “What?”

“The map of Erebor,” he says, and Thorin blinks foolishly at him, completely thrown by the sudden topic shift.

His moment of staring is broken by the sound of Bilbo’s laughter, and he turns to see the Hobbit trying to restrain laughter and failing miserably, his cheeks flushed slightly with mirth. “Really, Gandalf?” he says the moment he can speak through his laughter. “Thorin has returned from the _future_ , and you’re worried we haven’t been able to get the map translated?”

At that, Gandalf lets out a brief chuckle, the rest of the Company bursting out in uproarious laughter.

“I suppose there is very little point to it now that we know the location of the hidden door,” Gandalf says, and then his eyes flick to Thorin. “You _do_ recall the location?”

“It’s on the small ledge behind the statue of Thrór on the northwest corner,” Thorin replies. “The door can only be opened when the moonlight of Durin’s Day shines upon the keyhole.” He looks over at Bilbo. “In fact, Bilbo, _you_ were the one to figure out the riddle. The rest of us all feared the worst when the sunlight faded, since the riddle specifically mentioned ‘the last light of Durin’s Day’.”

“You gave up, didn’t you,” Dwalin says, and Thorin glares at him.

“No, I didn’t.”

Dwalin simply raises his eyebrows skeptically, and Thorin resists the urge to punch him in the arm.

“I’m trying to conduct a lesson here, if you don’t mind,” he says, a little sharper than he meant to, but Dwalin only grins at him and gives him a little “well, go on” gesture.

Thorin directs a tiny smile, barely an upward quirking of the lips, in his direction and then turns back to Bilbo, who has already drawn his small Elven sword and is settled into his best approximation of a battle stance, which is quite frankly _atrocious_.

“Firstly, don’t stand like that,” Thorin says, stepping forward and taking Bilbo’s small hands to shift his grip on the blade. “The sword doesn’t need such a tight grip – it’s a sword, not a club, and you need to be able to shift the blade’s trajectory easily. Furthermore, its sharpness means it can slice through almost anything with barely any pressure at all, so it is to your advantage to keep your hands from being so tight on the hilt in order to twist it out of the way. You do not have the strength or skill required to win a duel, so you must keep from engaging in one in the first place. Use your size and speed to your advantage.” Thorin steps back and looks over his battle stance, trying to think of how Bilbo should stand. “Keep your stance loose, and be ready to move whenever you must. You cannot knock your opponent’s weapon from their hands, nor can you win if it comes down to pure swordsmanship. Avoid them if you can, parry their strokes if you must, and look for a way through their guard. Your intelligence is your greatest weapon; use it to find a way to win your battles swiftly and without hesitation. Mercy is useless when you are faced with immediate mortal danger.” Thorin draws Orcrist and moves to stand beside Bilbo, holding the Elven broadsword out in a two-handed grip in imitation of Bilbo’s on Sting. “These are the fundamental sword maneuvers; I suggest you practice them in the morning or night, preferably both, until you can perform them all with ease.”

Bilbo nods beside him, looking slightly nervous but when Thorin sends him a small reassuring smile, the Hobbit seems to relax somewhat, even sending him a slightly wan smile back.

Thorin moves Orcrist to block over his head, slow enough that Bilbo can copy him, and then turns to his burglar to adjust his stance slightly.

“When you block, keep your elbows bent,” he says as he adjusts the positioning of the sword, and is slightly surprised and rather gratified when Bilbo immediately obeys, looking up at Thorin with a questioning look in his eyes: _did I do it right?_

“Very good indeed, for your first lesson, Bilbo,” Thorin says and feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the small flash of pride in the Hobbit’s eyes at the compliment.

It’s true, but unsurprising, since Thorin witnessed Bilbo’s rather remarkable skill for someone with absolutely no previous training on the first Quest. And he’s going to have _words_ with Gandalf about letting Bilbo go off on the Quest without any training of any kind – no matter how skilled he proved himself to be, inviting Bilbo along was the height of irresponsibility.

(Thorin ignores Dís whispering in his head that _he_ let Bilbo go on the Quest too.)

“And you actually listen to my guidance,” Thorin continues, letting his gaze flicker to Fíli and Kíli, “unlike _some_ I could name.”

Fíli instantly flushes, and Kíli lets out several incoherent sputtering noises in both Khuzdul and Westron, to ripples of laughter throughout the entire courtyard.

Thorin glances over at Galadriel, to find she too is chuckling at their outrage, but the anger Thorin might have felt before at seeing an elf laughing at his nephews is nowhere to be found. Now, he can distinguish between mockery and honest amusement, and this laughter is most distinctly of the second.

Glóin looks mildly angered at the Lady’s actions, but as Thorin makes no move to protest, he says nothing.

(This might also have something to do with the fiery glare leveled at him by Bifur the second he so much as looks oddly at her.)

Thorin turns back to Bilbo, reaching out and loosening his grip slightly on the sword and then demonstrating the block against a stab to the throat or chest, giving Bilbo plenty of time to practice each move by himself so that he can properly recall them in the heat of battle with orcs descending upon him.

Though Bilbo consistently has difficulties relinquishing his tight grip and treats them all to some memorable Hobbit curses when he attempts a maneuver to roll under an oncoming attack and come up stabbing his opponent in the stomach and instead hits his head on the stone floor, he is also remarkably quick at picking up the moves and eager to learn, as well as having the remarkable trait of listening to Thorin’s direction instead of declaring himself able to invent better training methods than three Ages worth of collective wisdom.

(Unlike a few nephews he could mention.)

* * *

“Bilbo, you and I are going to be having a duel.”

Bilbo blinks, staring blankly at him. “What?”

“We will be dueling to give you the chance to practice using your techniques in a combat situation without actually risking your life in a true battle,” Thorin explains as patiently as he can, ignoring Dwalin’s slight snicker behind him.

“But we just got back from lunch!” Bilbo protests, his alarm bleeding through in his voice even though he tries to mask it behind an expression of simple irritation. “I haven’t prepared – ”

“That’s precisely the point,” Thorin reassures him, and when Bilbo still looks worried, he moves over and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Bilbo, look at me. You’ll be fine, I know you will. I’ve seen what you can do without training, and believe me when I tell you that you are ready for this.”

“But – ” Bilbo starts, and then he breaks off when he realizes. “Oh. Well. If you say so, though you’ll forgive me if I’m uncertain.”

“And you’ll forgive me if I insist you shouldn’t be.”

Bilbo’s lips quirk upwards into a smile and Thorin finds himself responding in kind, though he is absolutely certain that he never ordered his face to look like that of a lovestruck fifty-year-old.

Except Bilbo’s gold-amber eyes are nearly sparking with his amusement that fades into a hopeful something he cannot quite identify…

_I loved you since the day we met, you know?_

… but he does not dare dwell on what might have been, or else he shall go mad (again), only Bilbo is here now, here and alive and not a construct of his own injured mind.

And he suddenly realizes that he’s been standing, silently staring into Bilbo’s eyes, for some time now and clears his throat awkwardly, looking down at the ground and trying to ignore the incipient flush of embarrassment rising on his cheeks.

Somewhere across from him, Bilbo coughs into his hand, and Thorin swiftly glances across the courtyard for something to look at, and then his eyes alight upon the Company, sitting in a rough circle around the sword area.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Thorin snaps before he can think twice, but to his relief not one of them seem put off by his harshness.

“Nah,” Bofur says cheerfully, stuffing his pipe and lighting it without his customary smile even once leaving his face.

“You can sharpen weapons here just as well as anywhere else,” Glóin opines, but his eyes are not anywhere near his battleaxe and the whetstone he is idly drawing across the blade.

“Or knit,” Ori says cheerfully, and he smiles up at Thorin with a childish innocence that he will not be fooled by for a second.

“You forget, I’ve known all of you for decades,” Thorin reminds them. “I know all of your little tricks.”

“No one knows all my tricks,” Nori promises, and Thorin simply grins at him.

“You carry your precious possessions in your hair, knowing no dwarf would even touch it no matter if you were the most dangerous criminal in Ered Luin,” he announces blithely and turns back to Bilbo, leaving Nori sputtering in his wake.

The instant his hand touches Orcrist’s hilt Bilbo whips Sting out, holding it in a stance equally suited to fighting or fleeing, and thus concealing his intentions until the last possible second.

Orcrist slides free of her sheath, the blade nearly humming as he holds it out towards Bilbo…

– and is almost immediately struck by a sharp, vivid memory of the battlements of Erebor as the winter wind shrieked around them and Thorin almost killed the Hobbit to whom his heart forever belongs.

“Thorin?” Dwalin says in concern, and Thorin shakes himself hard.

“I’m fine,” he replies, even though he can still feel the weight of the crown upon his brow and the taste of ash and snow mingling on the breeze.

There’s a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye and Thorin instinctively brings Orcrist up to block, Sting scraping along her companion sword, but before Thorin can attempt to twist his sword around to knock Sting from Bilbo’s hands the Hobbit is already leaping backwards, out of range.

“ _Very_ good, Bilbo,” Thorin praises, sharing a look of impressed surprise with Dwalin. “Attacking me while I was distracted… excellent work.”

Bilbo almost glows at Thorin’s praise, though there are faint traces of red upon his cheeks.

“You did tell me to be both intelligent and merciless,” he replies cheerfully, fiddling slightly with the grip of his sword.

“That I – ” Thorin breaks off as Bilbo lunges again, and though he parries the first strike Bilbo swiftly spins around, rolling behind Thorin and pressing Sting into his back, near the heart.

“Thorin, you’re losing your touch!” Óin roars across as Bilbo releases him.

“Laddie, get it together,” Balin says with an air of lighthearted teasing.

Thorin waves his left hand at Bilbo as the other holds Orcrist out towards the little Hobbit, whose eyes are nearly dancing with mischief and happiness. “He’s being devious!”

“Who, me?” Bilbo says innocently, but this time Thorin knows to expect the attack the second the Halfling is done speaking and blocks all three strikes aimed his way and counters with an elegant sweep towards the throat that Bilbo swiftly rolls under.

In truth, Thorin knows exactly why he’s having difficulties, and it has everything to do with a certain irritating jewel and a betrayal which he should never have allowed to happen.

That thought leaves him faltering when Bilbo’s next stroke comes sweeping in and he is unable to parry the strike before Sting is resting lightly in the hollow of his throat.

“Honestly, Thorin, I think _Bombur_ could do better than that,” Dwalin calls over to him, though Thorin can feel his eyes lingering upon him in concern.

“Oh, shut up,” Thorin volleys back and manages to sweep Orcrist in past Bilbo’s guard, though the Hobbit cleverly avoids the blade and tries to come around towards Thorin’s left side in a flanking attack, only to find himself countered by Elven steel as Thorin swiftly switches Orcrist from his right hand to his left.

“Seems you’re not bad with unexpected maneuvers either,” Bilbo quips as he dances back on fleet Hobbit feet and starts circling Thorin, sword flickering out occasionally in small feints that Thorin doesn’t bother trying to defend against.

Thorin shrugs, trying and failing to stop the small besotted smile his face always insists upon making around Bilbo. “No one expects to send thirteen dwarrow and a Hobbit against a dragon, now do they?”

“This is true,” Nori agrees, and even over the laughter Thorin can hear the irritated noise Balin makes in response.

“That’s because it’s folly,” the elder Fundinul says in exasperated tones.

“Perhaps, but now I know that it achieves the intended goal of reclaiming Erebor,” Thorin points out reasonably, and even Bilbo laughs when Balin throws up his hands in disgust.

“Oh, so that’s your justification for leaving us to the trolls?” Óin barks out, a little more loudly than required, and Thorin opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by Bilbo suddenly lunging forward.

“That tactic of attacking me while I’m distracted is becoming quite annoying,” Thorin says as he blocks Bilbo’s attacks and tries to knock the blade from his hands only for the Hobbit to almost miraculously slip away from it, neatly moving from in front of him to almost behind him in the space of a blink, and how in _Durin’s name_ does he _do_ that?

“Stop being distracted then,” Bilbo replies blithely, and Thorin tries desperately to glare at him as the watching dwarrow start laughing, but then the Hobbit sends him a soft, fond smile coupled with a slight shake of the head as if to say, _you silly dwarf_ , and Thorin momentarily forgets everything aside from the little (adorable, cute, _wonderful_ ) burglar standing in front of him.

“I’m sorry, what were we talking about?” he asks, giving his head a firm shake and ignoring the sounds of snickering and what sounds like _betting_ from behind him.

“How you abandoned us to the tender mercies of three monstrous trolls,” Bilbo says cheerfully, and this time Thorin does manage to glare at him, though not for very long. Bilbo’s fond looks should be classified as lethal weapons.

“I did not _abandon_ you,” Thorin counters, trying to summon up his dignified King Under The Mountain persona and failing rather miserably. “I departed to collect important weaponry to aid us in the coming fight against the Nazgûl. I knew you could handle it; after all, I had seen you do it before. All you needed was to distract the trolls long enough for Gandalf to turn them into stone.”

“Which is not what happened.”

Thorin blinks, thrown, and this time he doesn’t manage to block Sting before it comes to rest on the place above his heart. “What?”

Bilbo rolls his eyes fondly as he removes the sword and moves back a few paces. “You silly dwarf,” he says with odd happiness in his voice, and then he calls over to Dwalin, “Is he usually this unobservant?”

“The old Thorin was; I can’t vouch for this one, though the evidence to date seems to point towards an affirmative,” his shield-brother replies.

“So, pretty much,” Bilbo says with a fond shake of the head as he smiles at Thorin, and it takes far too much effort to keep himself from mimicking it. “Thorin, did you _see_ any stone trolls in that clearing?”

“I was a bit preoccupied with the Nazgûl trying to kill us!” Thorin says defensively.

“Which means no,” Balin translates and Thorin makes an irritated noise deep in his throat.

“Very well, then, what happened to them?”

“I was distracting them,” this is punctuated by a slash towards the throat, which proves to be a feint for a stab towards the gut instead, which he parries, “when the Nazgûl jumped in out of nowhere and attacked the trolls, who put up enough of a fight to let Gandalf collect our weapons and cut our bonds, at which point he released a burst of energy which blinded the Wraiths momentarily and actually _vaporized_ the trolls. I hadn’t been aware he could _do_ that.” Sting somehow sneaks its way through his guard _yet again_ and comes to rest at his throat. “You’re dead again, by the way. Are you letting me win?”

“No!” Thorin protests immediately, and when Bilbo only levels a searching glare on him, Thorin’s eyes flicker down towards the floor and he says quietly, “Not intentionally, at least.”

“Does this have to do with the fact that you keep calling me ‘Master Baggins’?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin freezes, his heart suddenly racing.

 _They will not know_ , he promises quietly to himself. _They must never know._

“Thorin?”

Thorin looks up into Bilbo’s gentle eyes, their brown depths filled with equal parts compassion and concern, and this time he doesn’t bother to stop the smile rising to his lips.

“It’s alright, Bilbo,” he says softly, and Bilbo shakes his head, looking both frustrated and upset, and how Thorin wants to wipe that expression from his face but he cannot think _how_.

“It’s very clearly _not_ alright,” the ( _his_ ) Hobbit says in exasperated concern, scowling as mightily as he is able, which is not very. Bilbo’s features are simply not constructed for anger.

“I would not burden you with it,” Thorin says quietly, and Bilbo sighs.

“Alright,” the burglar says softly, but there’s a tone to his voice that says this is not yet over.

“Thank you,” Thorin whispers, and Bilbo reaches out and places a hand on his cheek.

“Will you at least tell me when you’re ready?” he asks hopefully, and Thorin smiles softly at him in turn.

“Of course,” he says, and it’s not even a lie, because he never _will_ be ready.

But the not-technically-a-lie still makes Bilbo let out a sigh of relief, and Thorin reaches out instinctively to lay his hand over the smaller one resting against his cheek, Bilbo’s hand almost automatically curling around his, and the Hobbit’s eyes are nearly shining with something gentle and sweet ~~_(loving?)_~~ and are scarcely inches from him, and Thorin could lose himself in their soft amber for hours.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and Thorin and Bilbo spring apart instantaneously, Thorin spinning around to glare at the Company, all of whom are watching with considerable interest, aside from Fíli and Ori, both of whom look mildly embarrassed, though Thorin notes with amusement that _Kíli_ doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest.

(Then again, his younger sister-son has always been an incredible flirt.)

However, even the awkward embarrassment of the youngest isn’t enough to stop him from flushing as he meets the Company’s eyes.

“Dinner’s ready,” Óin announces gruffly, “if you two lovebirds can stop staring at each other long enough to actually eat a proper meal.”

“Why, I never – ” Bilbo splutters indignantly, and Thorin lowers his head and coughs into his hand awkwardly to hide the blush coloring his cheeks bright scarlet.

“Shut up,” he snaps preemptively at Dwalin, and almost immediately feels guilty for it, but his shield-brother merely laughs and slings a companionable arm around his shoulders as they walk towards the dining pavilion.

* * *

“Right,” Bofur says as soon as they reenter their rooms, straightening his absurdly quirky hat on his head and smiling at Thorin. “What’s the plan?”

“Once we’re through the Misty Mountains, head for Erebor as swiftly as possible and defeat Smaug before moving to deal with Sauron,” Thorin says as he clears a space on the floor for the larger map of Middle-earth he requested from Lindir, who is apparently Elrond’s personal attendant, not just the doorwarden.

“Do we have a plan to deal with Smaug yet?” Balin asks as he settles on the stone floor.

“In Esgaroth, there is a descendant of Girion with the last Black Arrow. In the worst case scenario, he can shoot it into the place left unprotected from Smaug’s missing scale.”

“So, no, then,” Nori says, and Thorin directs a glare at him.

“You’ll think of something, though,” Kíli says cheerfully. “Right, Uncle?”

“Of course he will,” Ori says brightly, and Thorin sends them what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“But you said ‘once we’re through the Misty Mountains’,” Bilbo says. “So what happens before we make it through the mountains?”

“Around here,” Thorin says, pointing at a part of the mountain range on the map, “there is a hidden goblin tunnel, designed to trap travelers through the mountains, which we will meet in about three or four days, if my estimates are correct.”

“So we go around,” Dwalin says with a nod. “Simple enough.”

“No.”

“You want us to trigger the trap?” Fíli asks, sounding rather skeptical.

“It’s not a question of me wanting us to or not,” Thorin mutters to himself, before raising his voice to a more normal volume. “The Ring of Power lies hidden somewhere under the goblin tunnels; I know not its precise location, but I know for a fact that it _is_ there. Triggering the trap is the only reliable way I know of getting us into the place where it is located, and we are still on a strict time limit for Durin’s Day. It would take entirely too long for us to search the entire area.”

Thorin takes a steadying breath, still desperately wishing he could find another way to do this but seeing no other way around it.

“Once we are inside,” he continues, “the rest of us will allow ourselves to fake being captured whilst Bilbo slips free to find the Ring.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Bilbo, you found the Ring the first time, you can do it again the second time. Trust me on this,” Thorin tries, but Bilbo shakes his head stubbornly instead.

“I cannot find it, Thorin,” he says, avoiding Thorin’s eyes and trembling ever so slightly with worry.

“Bilbo – Bilbo, look at me,” Thorin says, reaching out and taking Bilbo’s hands, and the Hobbit meets his gaze, worry clear in his amber eyes.

“You can do it,” he says softly. “I know beyond doubt that you can. Simply slip away from the main group when they first capture us, and I know I have not changed enough for whatever happens to place you near the Ring to have also been changed. You will be _fine_ , Bilbo. Alright?” Bilbo nods his assent, but there is still lingering uncertainty and Thorin leans forward to gently touch Bilbo’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s done so much damage to you, Thorin,” he whispers softly, and Thorin feels a sudden pain in his chest as though he is being run through once more at the thought of the Ring tearing Bilbo’s will to shreds, “and what if having it near you again only hurts you more?”

Thorin blinks at Bilbo’s quiet words, and then he feels himself starting to smile despite their dark discussion. “I can bear it,” he tells Bilbo softly. “Trust me, Bilbo. I will be fine. I promise,” he adds when Bilbo shoots him a rather skeptical look.

“Alright,” Bilbo murmurs after a long moment, and there’s a soft gentleness in his eyes that eases somewhat the terrible guilt in Thorin’s heart that he will allow his One to carry the Ring, however short a time he might carry it for.

Óin clears his throat loudly, and Thorin swiftly looks away from Bilbo, though he cannot help but glance swiftly at his Hobbit out of the corner of his eye, and his lips quirk upwards when he notices Bilbo doing the same.

“Anything else ye want to tell us?” the crotchety old healer replies, and only a swift elbow to the ribs from Balin stops an incipient comment about lovestruck forty-year-olds.

“Two things, actually,” Thorin replies with all the dignity he can muster after gazing into Bilbo’s eyes for almost a minute in silence. “Firstly, the Ring of Power has the capability to turn you invisible, but as that attracts the attention of both the Nazgûl and Sauron himself, I advise you only do so in dire need. Secondly, the day we enter the goblin caves, there will be a thunder-battle upon the mountains, which we will unfortunately have to go through.”

Groans fill the room after this announcement, though a few individuals look rather excited at the knowledge that the legends of the stone-giants are true.

“You mean we have to go through a thunder-battle and then into a cavern full of goblins that very night without any time to sleep or even dry off?” Nori asks, and Thorin scowls darkly at the map.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Oh, well, nothing for it, I suppose,” Dori says, rising and stretching. “Come on, you two, time for sleep.”

“Yes, mum,” Nori says in exasperation, but he follows Dori into the bedroom apparently designated as the Company’s “slumber party” room.

Thorin leans over and starts folding up the map to tuck in his traveling bag in case he needs it later, when a gentle touch falls on his arm.

“Uncle?” Fíli asks quietly, and Thorin looks up to find both him and Kíli standing in front of him with looks in their eyes that he cannot quite identify.

“Yes, Fíli, Kíli?” he asks, rising to his feet and tucking the map under his arm.

He is considerably and rather happily surprised when both of his sister-sons enfold him in a joint embrace, tucking their heads against him as they did when they were just children in Ered Luin.

“We wanted to say that we love you, Uncle,” Fíli starts.

“And we still love you even though we know that you’re not the uncle who left Ered Luin with us,” Kíli continues, and then Fíli finishes:

“But you’re still our Uncle Thorin, no matter what.”

Thorin swallows hard, realizing that he’s crying and he wraps his arms around his two boys, still alive and he promises himself they will stay that way, no matter what happens to him.

“I love you too, my beloved sister’s sons,” Thorin whispers as he bows his head and holds them close. “My dear Fíli and Kíli.”

For a long moment, they stand there in that embrace, until Fíli apparently realizes that Thorin is never going to be the first one to release his two lads he lost sixty years ago and who almost miraculously returned to him (in fact, he thinks managing not to sweep the two of them up into a hug and never letting go the instant he laid eyes on them once more is a considerable achievement indeed) and breaks the embrace, blinking tears out of his eyes.

“Are you okay, uncle?” Fíli asks quietly, and in Kíli’s eyes as he steps away there is an echo of the question.

“I will be,” Thorin tells them softly, and both his sister-sons smile in relief as he looks at them with gentle love and doesn’t try to stop the tears welling in his eyes.

Thorin falls asleep that night with his sister-sons flanking him on his left and Bilbo on his right and the snores of Dwalin and Glóin surrounding him as the Company snuggle close to one another and he thinks he might know contentment, in that quiet moment before sleep claims him.

* * *

The wind of summer swiftly fading into autumn stirs his hair gently as Thorin stands in the courtyard of Rivendell in the early morning light with the rest of the Company surrounding him and Bilbo standing within arm’s reach even though they are not touching, and he can feel the shift in the atmosphere of the Company, but instead of the suspicion he was almost certain they would direct towards him he can sense an unspoken oath of protection hovering in the air, showing in how they gather closely around him, not yet in a protective encirclement but close enough for it to become one in a brief moment.

Galadriel descends the steps to them with Elrond and Gandalf flanking her, and Thorin inclines his head in a gesture that she returns, a gentle smile touching her lips as she looks at how Thorin and Bilbo stand close beside one another.

“My lady, I wish to thank you for the healing you offered my shield-brother,” Dwalin says with a respectful bow to her that serves to remind all that Dwalin is still technically royalty despite very rarely acting like it.

“You are most welcome, Dwalin son of Fundin son of Farin,” the Lady of Lórien says softly, and then she looks around at the entire Company, her eyes sparkling slightly at how they cluster closely around Thorin and at the bravery that she can undoubtedly see in their eyes. “Should you need us, simply call upon us and the Golden Wood shall answer,” she says, and there is the sound of a vow in the words that rings out in the morning air.

“It has been long indeed since such a promise was sworn by the Lady of Lothlórien,” Gandalf says softly, and Thorin turns to see something like awe in the Grey Wizard’s eyes.

“Gandalf,” he says, stepping forward, and the Maia’s eyes immediately move to him. “We will need your assistance about three days hence, on the far slopes of the Misty Mountains, with the Eagles of Manwë, if they can be spared.”

Gandalf nods, and says in a considering voice, “I shall remain here until Saruman’s fate is decided, then, and come for you then. Can you tell me where you can be found?”

“Look for whatever is on fire,” Thorin says with grim amusement, and then Bilbo hisses sharply, “Thorin!” and he looks up to see the Hobbit pointing towards where Galadriel kneels before Bifur, accepting a small carved bird from him. As he watches, the Lady twists a small knob on the side of the bird beneath the left wing, and then her face lights up with joy as it flutters up into the air, making several rotations around her before gliding back down into her hand.

“Impressive,” Elrond says, and Thorin can only nod in agreement.

“ _Truly, a masterwork_ ,” Galadriel says in soft Khuzdul, and as Bifur smiles at her she places her hand upon his head as she rises. “ _I shall treasure it, Bifur son of Balur_.”

“ _Thank you, my lady_ ,” Bifur replies quietly, and the Lady’s graceful fingers curl around the small bird as she moves to stand before them all.

“Fare thee well, Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” she says, her starry eyes resting upon each one of them in turn, and when they alight upon him Thorin hears her say quietly into his mind, _Take heart, son of Thráin. You stand with a Company who will follow you to whatever end may come. Loyalty and love can drive back even the greatest darkness. Believe in your own strength, and you will see this through._

Thorin nods slowly, and out of the corner of his eye he catches Bilbo’s eyes brimming with quiet tears and Fíli and Kíli standing straighter and suddenly more resolute, young eyes determined.

“Go with the blessings of Imladris and Lórien,” Galadriel says with a warm smile of reassurance and encouragement, and Thorin inclines his head to her one last time and begins to cross back over the bridge out to the Misty Mountains, and even as they begin to climb the rough stone path Thorin can still feel Bilbo’s steadying presence behind him and the Company surrounding him and despite the knowledge that he will soon have to take up the Ring once more, he still feels the warmth of their bonds of friendship surrounding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Arwen: During book-canon, she was in fact in Lothlorien during the time of the Quest, but due to the movies' removal of the seventeen years between Bilbo's 111th birthday and the War of the Ring, that moves this story's timeline up to a time when the official timeline in Appendix B places her in Rivendell. This also means that Aragorn is in his twenties as opposed to being a young boy and has already begun his adventuring with the Dúnedain, which you might want to remember for later.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Fundinul_ : son of Fundin  
>  _Nadad_ : brother, pl. _naddad_  
>  _Dagor Dagorath_ : literally "Battle of Battles"; the Middle-Earth End of Days  
>  _âzyungel_ : love of all loves, beloved  
>  _Khama Uzbad Thorin Thráinul_ : For King Thorin, son of Thráin

“ _I hope you know what you’re doing, son of Thrór_ ,” Azog snarls in the harsh gutturals of Black Speech, almost quiet in the fierce thundering rain around them.

“ _I know Thorin_ ,” Thráin hisses back, his voice hoarse from speaking in the tongue of Mordor, a language whose corruptive harshness he is as yet unused to. “ _He seeks the Ring of the Master in the maze of the goblins’ city. He will find it for us in those tunnels, and then we shall take it from him_.”

“ _Oakenshield will resist_ ,” Azog replies calmly, as an experienced commander stating a simple fact.

Thráin looks back at him, grinning with something dark and malicious in his lone eye, and even Azog still feels chills that a father can contemplate the death of a son with such foul expectancy. “ _Then we shall pry it from his cold, stiff fingers, bathed in his blood_.” A smile dances across his face, white teeth flashing in the dark, but something pained flickers in his eye and for a moment the cruel malevolence falters.

“ _Remember, Servant of Sauron_ ,” Azog warns as he gestures at the Warg-riders massing behind him to follow him into the pass, “ _I have been promised Oakenshield. His death will be at my hands, no other_.”

“ _Oakenshield is dangerous_ ,” Thráin says, and Azog restrains himself from rolling his eyes in disgust. _Truly? I hadn’t noticed_. “ _But if you find him alive, none will stand between you and he_.” A hand across his heart, a short nod that seems out of place for a fell creature of shadow, more fitting as a faint echo of the dwarf he once was.

Lightning flashes to his right, and Azog’s Warg snarls in discomfort but the orc-commander stills her restless movement even as he glances up towards where the dark shadow of the Witch-King alights upon the stone beside the path, the black of its cloak and of the beast it rides absorbing the light and reflecting none back.

“ _Oakenshield has entered the passage of the Stone-Giants_ ,” the Wraith hisses in a sibilant whisper, but a familiar hatred laces the creature’s words, and especially the whisper of the name of their enemy. It is a hatred Azog has felt many times, a burning wrath etched into every syllable of his enemy’s name and the promise that Oakenshield’s last sight will be of the orc looming above him, the blood of Oakenshield’s kin staining his blade and their bodies surrounding him.

Azog senses that he now has a kindred spirit in his hatred of the heir of Durin’s throne.

“ _He will soon stumble upon the pathway into the goblin city_ ,” the Witch-King utters, and Azog can see in the way the being’s hands clench around the reins of his beast that he would sooner be descending on Oakenshield with an unearthly screech upon the wind.

“ _Send your Wraiths to patrol the mountains_ ,” Thráin says in the tone of one long used to command, even if the circumstances are far removed from his commands of old. “ _If even a mouse moves in that pass, I want to know about it. As soon as you sense the Ring, you will return and alert us to attack. We will not allow them to flee to safety. Not this time_.”

The Nazgûl bows its dark-crowned head, and Azog sees in the strange tilt the knowledge that they follow only for the sake of the damage that seeing Thráin standing at the fore of the Wraiths will inflict upon their united enemy, though the dwarf does not see it as he swings onto his Warg and kicks it into a gallop towards the pass and Oakenshield, the shriek of the Nazgûl echoing behind them as the creature wings its way back into the sky.

And for all that Azog wishes he could take his sword to the dwarf’s back then and there, to be one step closer to fulfilling his oath of destruction, he must admit that the horror within Oakenshield’s eyes as he sees his father in the service of Sauron is a sight he will be willing to sacrifice much indeed for.

And he has been promised Thráin’s life as well, to take as Oakenshield lies dying and helpless to save him.

* * *

Thorin freezes at the scream that echoes across the mountains, almost concealed beneath an echoing roll of thunder but still all too familiar, their brief stay at Rivendell and even Galadriel’s healing not enough to dull the sharp edge of fear lying just beneath the surface.

Nazgûl-Slayer he might be, but that does not mean he fears them any less.

“Thorin!”

Thorin blinks himself out of memories to see the abyss looming beneath him, a seemingly-endless drop down the sheer stone of the Misty Mountains, and he reaches out for a handhold but he is already on the edge of falling and a single movement is enough to send him over –

But then hands, solid and steadying, are stabilizing him and pulling him back from the edge, letting him rest against the stone at his back, wet and cold though it might be.

Thorin blinks open his eyes, squinting through the storm to try and see those who pulled him back, and there is Dwalin, of course, but also Bifur and Glóin, Kíli and Fíli hovering behind them with Bilbo nestled protectively in between them. The Hobbit’s eyes are wide and fear-filled at the perilous drop and the fury of the storm around them, though his concern shines brighter than his fear, if only for the moment.

“That was the hunting cry of the Nazgûl,” Thorin says, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, though Glóin has to repeat his words into Óin’s ear trumpet for the deaf healer’s sake. “They undoubtedly search for us in the sky by now.”

“Flying? In this gale?” Bofur says, sounding incredulous. “I almost pity them, the bastards.”

“They’re not likely to find us in this storm,” Dwalin says reasonably. “We press on.”

“Here’s hoping the Wizard leaves soon enough that he gets caught in this,” Nori grumbles under his breath, and Thorin huffs a weak laugh as he turns back to the path, entirely too narrow in the gloom, dark even by the standards of dwarven night-vision.

Bearing that in mind, it’s not exactly surprising that Bilbo misses the path with a step and almost goes tumbling off the mountain. Kíli tries to lunge forward and grab him before they both end up nearly going off the side before Fíli and Balin manage to grab them and Dori and Ori help haul them back onto the path.

Thorin slumps against the mountainside, feeling his heart racing wildly in his chest and a cold sweat on his skin, his hands once again shaking. “Sweet Mahal,” he whispers under his breath, trying to hide the depth of his panic and feeling as if he is not succeeding particularly well. Bombur reaches out and clasps his shoulder with one massive hand, the shared weight of fatherhood even if Bombur does not know what it is to see his lads die in front of him.

“How much farther is it?” Bilbo yells over to him, trying to sound flippant and ending up more desperate instead, and Thorin’s heart clenches.

“Not far, only about a dozen meters – ” and that’s when the first stone slams into the peak above them, accompanied by a thunderous crash and fragments of stone showering down onto them.

The air is abruptly filled with blistering Khuzdul swearwords as the rest of the Company attempt to take shelter from the stone as the giants awake, but even though the others start to move around them Thorin remains still, his eyes staring unseeingly into the storm as fire blazes in his vision, echoing shouts of pain and fear in his mind that he cannot brush away.

It is only when the stone begins to shift beneath his feet that Thorin manages to break free of the memories, eyes flickering over the Company even as he prays desperately to Mahal that the cries he heard were merely a part of the flashback and not a reflection of reality.

But no, the entire Company seems hale and hearty, save for the fact that the stone beneath them is beginning to move as the Stone Giant they walk upon is beginning to awaken for the battle ahead.

Fíli and Kíli both stand beside Bilbo, and thus it is Ori now who stands in between the two platforms, and the young scribe hesitates a few moments too long to be able to move out of the way, and Thorin unhesitatingly lunges forward, catching his arm and pulling him onto the ledge to relative safety, Bombur supporting him as he helps Ori over.

Ori nods his thanks to them, pale and shaking with eyes huge in his face, and then Thorin is closing his hand tightly around the other’s arm and gripping tightly to the slick stone with his other hand as Bombur and Óin latch onto him to avoid tumbling off the mountain as the stone beneath their feet shifts. Bifur and Dori let out yells of fright as the giant moves with a speed that should be impossible for a creature its size, and then another giant flings a rock into their giant, showering stone down onto them, Thorin pressing himself as close to the stone as he can and closing his eyes to keep any of the sharp pieces from injuring them.

Bilbo lets out a shriek of terror, followed by the sound of stone on stone, and Thorin’s head shoots up but thankfully Dwalin and Bofur have grabbed ahold of their burglar and are carefully shielding him with their own bodies as the rock from their giant headbutting another ricochets off the mountainside.

Thorin feels a wave of relief, but almost immediately the giant slams into a nearby piece of the mountainside, the sudden impact jarring him enough that he releases his hold on the stone, but Ori, demonstrating the prodigious strength he shares with his eldest brother, swiftly hauls him back. He nods a mute thanks to the youngest Ri brother and then he and the others are running for the path; Glóin’s feet go out from under him just as Thorin is making the leap to the path as the giant moves away, and even as he stumbles and almost tumbles off the mountain himself he is already attempting to run towards the falling Firebeard, even though he doubts he will make it, but he must not allow a single member of his Company to die, especially not from the ravages of a storm he knew was coming and did not try to stop, when he could have searched for another way –

But Balin and Óin are lunging forward to help, each of them grabbing one of Glóin’s arms and hauling the banker back onto the narrow path, and Thorin slumps against the wall, his legs unsteady beneath him and his heart still hammering wildly in his chest.

Any relief that Glóin’s rescue might have provided are immediately washed away as the other half of the Company comes screaming past, still on the knee of the giant and looking to be hale and intact, if only for the moment. Dwalin makes a hurried _We’re fine_ gesture in Iglishmek as he hurtles past, but the widening of his eyes serves to belie his words as he latches onto Fíli, holding the cluster of Thorin’s sister-sons and Bilbo from falling.

In the distance, Thorin sees the indistinct shape of another giant rising up, a stone easily the size of Durin’s Bane held in massive hands, and he roars out over the raging storm “Take cover!” just before the rock hurtles into their giant’s head, shattering it to pieces.

Thorin covers his head with his arms, twisting to one side as stone shards ricochet off the mountainside, miraculously missing the dwarrow huddled against it, but he hears the rest of the Company’s terrified yells as the giant’s knee slams into the mountainside with shattering force before it tumbles down into the valley far below.

Thorin’s scream is almost automatic, but even though he knows that none died the last time they journeyed down this path he also knows that that is no guarantee for their survival now.

“Dwalin!” Balin yells beside him, fear clearly audible in his voice and that only makes him redouble his speed, nearly tumbling over the edge once again as his boots slide on the wet stone beneath his feet.

“We’re alive!” Kíli cries in a breathless shout, and then he and his brother are bellowing, “Bilbo!” in frightened unison, and Thorin rounds the last corner to find them both sprawled on the stone, reaching out towards the Hobbit whose small fingers have almost miraculously found a handhold in the stone, though it is slick from the rain still pouring down relentlessly and even though Kíli leans out over the edge as far as possible without risking a fall, he cannot reach far enough to grab ahold of their burglar.

Thorin unhesitatingly flings himself over the mountain’s edge, one hand wrapped tightly around the stone at the edge of the path as his other closes on Bilbo’s coat and hauls him up to where Kíli can take his hand, but then Thorin’s hand slips and he is falling, remembering himself enough to release Bilbo’s coat so that he doesn’t drag the Hobbit down with him.

“Thorin!” Dwalin roars but he is entirely too far away even though he throws himself towards the edge in a desperate attempt to reach his shield-brother in time.

“Uncle!” Fíli screams, and then his sister-son’s hand has wrapped around his arm, his other hand grasping Thorin’s fur surcoat, and Thorin’s eyes widen in horror but then he realizes that Bifur has grabbed Fíli from behind, Dori and Dwalin holding the toymaker’s arm and coat respectively, keeping them all from falling.

“Get them up, hurry!” Dwalin roars, but the order is entirely unnecessary as Bofur and Glóin instantly move forward to help them up, Nori taking Thorin’s hand once he is within arm’s length and pulling him back onto solid ground.

The instant he is on his feet, Bilbo is running to his side and swiftly scanning him with his eyes to find any traces of injury, letting out a sigh of relief when he finds none.

“Bilbo, I’m fine,” Thorin whispers to the burglar, whose face twitches into a weak smile, though his face is still pale from fear. Thorin glances around at the Company, who all appear to be unscathed. “Everyone all right?”

“Says the dwarf who almost fell off a mountain,” Balin grumbles under his breath, but in his tone Thorin can recognize the familiar signs of anger caused by worry. “Don’t worry, laddie, we’re all in one piece.”

As if to mock the words, another rumble shakes the mountainside as one of the stone giants delivers a bruising punch to the chin of another, sending chips of stone flying through the air and striking the mountain cliffs surrounding them.

“Inside, hurry!” Óin barks, grabbing Fíli and Glóin and shoving them towards the entrance of a cave Thorin thankfully recognizes.

“Move!” Dwalin bellows, carefully sheltering Ori and Kíli as stone pings off the mountain around them, a roar from one of the giants echoing over the crash of thunder from the storm.

Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand and starts to pull him along towards the cave, and they have only just crossed the threshold when Thorin realizes and releases Bilbo’s hand as if it is afire, but the Hobbit merely scowls at him and retakes Thorin’s hand in his, warmth flooding up his arm and into his entire body from the small hand in his, and as the (his) burglar smiles at him, more steady now, Thorin feels himself smile back without any conscious thought.

“Thorin, are you all right?” Fíli says anxiously, and Thorin turns to see his elder sister-son standing close beside him, and then he remembers Fíli flinging himself off a mountain to save his life, and his smile morphs into a black scowl.

“Fíli,” he says sharply, and the golden-haired prince swallows hard. “Did you just throw yourself off a mountain without having any support to keep you from plummeting to your death?”

“Erm,” Fíli says nervously, but then he swiftly rallies. “I trusted our companions to protect me,” he says, his voice wavering slightly but gaining in confidence the longer he speaks. “I knew they would save me, Uncle. Do you not trust them?”

“It is not a question of _trust_ ,” Thorin says harshly, stalking forward, but Fíli holds his ground. “What if they had been too far away? Good intentions do not guarantee success, Fíli. They would never think of not trying to save your life, but that does not mean they are automatically able to, no matter the circumstances. What if you had died, Fíli? Would you leave your brother alone?”

That last question strikes home, and pain flashes momentarily in Fíli’s eyes, but he lifts his chin stubbornly, looking every inch a prince of Durin’s Line, and someday a king. “Thorin, I – ”

Whatever Fíli was about to say is lost as Thorin lunges forward and enfolds him in a rough embrace, closing his eyes and fighting for control even as he feels his sister-son’s reassuring heartbeat against his own, throbbing steady and strong.

“Uncle?” Fíli says, sounding unsure and like the young dwarf he still is, too young, and Thorin understands now why Dís was so desperate they not journey with him on this quest.

“I could have lost you,” Thorin whispers hoarsely, and he feels the burning heat of incipient tears but he doesn’t know how to regain his composure, not when _his Fíli_ almost died flinging himself off a mountain. To save _him_. “ _Again_.”

“I – ” Fíli starts, but then arms wrap around them both and Thorin looks up to see Kíli’s face, slightly blurry through the tears in his eyes.

“We’re not dead, Thorin,” Kíli reassures, and then to Fíli, “though, brother, I have to agree with Uncle on that.”

“Sorry, Thorin, Kíli,” Fíli says softly, and Thorin forces himself to smile down at his sister-son.

“It’s alright, Fíli,” he says as he steps away from the embrace, and some part of him insists on enfolding his sister-sons in layers of mithril until nothing can touch them again, but he ruthlessly quashes that instinct. Fíli and Kíli will know happiness and he refuses to let himself interfere in that.

“Mahal save us, it’s getting all emotional in here,” Dwalin grumbles under his breath but nevertheless flings a solid arm around his shoulders, drawing him in close.

“Hey, laddie, you all right?” Bofur asks, and Thorin nods and viciously swipes at his eyes, dashing away the tears.

“I’m fine!” he snaps roughly, trying to shove away the memories of Fíli and Kíli lying still on the ice, scarlet blood shining in the weak sunlight, then their pale bodies being carried through the silent halls of Erebor bright fire casting long shadows over their bodies as they were entombed in the heart of the mountain, the Arkenstone held in their joined hands, never separated, not even in death.

That, and the sight of seeing Bilbo laid to rest in cold stone that he never belonged in, were consistently memories the Ring revealed to him, over and over so that his failure would be branded into his mind forever.

(Bilbo’s acorn never sprouted, even with the Lady Galadriel’s help, and Thorin knew then that it was a sign that something had died with Bilbo that could never be reclaimed)

“Not your fault, remember?” Dwalin whispers to him, and Thorin nods roughly but he cannot meet anyone’s eyes as he looks at the ground and tries to blink away the tears from his eyes and the dead hovering before him, still and horribly silent.

Óin clears his throat loudly, and then says in a voice a little louder than normal, “So, what’s the plan for us?”

“Get some sleep while you can,” Thorin replies roughly, still avoiding eye contact as he moves to set out his bedroll. “Allow the goblins to capture us; Gandalf will be there in time to save us, and after that do whatever is necessary to escape the tunnels unscathed. Azog will be searching for us, so we must evade him at all costs. The Eagles will be ready to provide an escape flight to the Carrock, which should give us enough time to make it into Mirkwood ahead of our pursuit.”

“Ah, no offense, laddie, but that doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“To be fair, this is the person who still doesn’t have a definite idea for how to face down the fire-breathing dragon that this Quest has always hinged upon defeating,” Nori points out, to scattered laughter, and Thorin manages to join in even though Nori’s words only remind him of how much more there is to endanger his kin and Company, evils that he still does not know how he will defeat.

“Thorin,” Balin says softly, and Thorin’s eyes flicker up, though he focuses on the other’s beard instead of his eyes. The advisor kneels down onto the ground before him, speaking quietly enough to go unheard amidst the chatter of the rest of the Company. “I’m not sure about this.”

“We must reclaim the Ring, and this is the only way I can think of to do it.” Thorin’s eyes flick down and away, resting on the stone floor covered with a light dusting of sand to hide the joins in the stone platforms. “I know it is dangerous, Balin, but I have no other choice.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Balin says, and then he reaches out and turns Thorin’s face towards him, making their eyes meet. “I meant that you plan to take up the Ring once Bilbo has met up with us again.”

“I will not let Bilbo or any other member of this Company be touched by the taint of that foul device,” Thorin says sharply. “That is final, Balin. I will not allow it.”

“Did you not hear what the Lady Galadriel said?” Dwalin snaps roughly, dropping down to sit next to his older brother. “The Ring tore your mind apart, Thorin. What is to say that it will not harm you again, this time beyond her skill to heal?” He leans in closer, voice low and intent and concern showing in his brown eyes. “What is to say it will not destroy you?”

“I can carry it,” Bilbo says stubbornly, settling down next to him, his soft Hobbit features set into a mask of determination. “I will be willing to take up this burden, Thorin.”

“No.”

“You had a panic attack just from Galadriel’s healing, because your fear of the Ring’s touch in your mind was so strong that it perceived any foreign presence as a threat,” Balin says, and why does his advisor have to be _right_ as well as persuasive?

“I refuse to let it harm you,” Thorin tries once more, and Dwalin flings his hands in the air with a snarl of frustration.

“And why are we not allowed to protect _you_?” the younger Fundinul demands, and Thorin looks away.

“I cannot let it touch you,” Thorin whispers, closing his eyes against the memories but fire burns even brighter in the darkness and the screams echo around him, accusing eyes branded into his mind and he cannot force them away. “I cannot.”

There is only silence around him, neither dwarf nor Hobbit knowing what to say to fight back the acid taste of failure in his throat and Thorin does not know either, except that they do not know the horrors that dance before his eyes and he would give his life to keep them from ever knowing what he has seen.

“I’m not going to let it hurt you, either,” Dwalin says stubbornly, and Thorin opens his eyes and looks up towards his shield-brother, remembering with horrible clarity the sound the troll’s mace made as it shattered his spine.

“That’s non-negotiable, laddie,” Balin informs him with equal resolve, and their fierce strength even in the face of the greatest evil upon Middle-earth shows them to be true descendants of Durin, though it does not sway him in the slightest.

“I cannot let it harm you,” Thorin repeats, and when both of Fundin’s sons look ready to protest further, he throws dignity to the wind and says in a voice fracturing with the strain of deaths uncountable, “ _Please_ , _naddad_. I know its darkness better than any who live, and I _cannot_ allow its shadow to touch you, not when I have been given this second chance to save you. I cannot lose you again. _Please. I beg of you_.”

Dwalin exchanges a look with Balin, weighted with something unreadable, and then he sighs and places a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “All right, Thorin,” he says wearily, and Thorin almost collapses with relief.

“Thank you,” he whispers faintly, and Dwalin reaches out to clasp a companionable hand on his shoulder, tilting their foreheads together in a gesture of mute reassurance that eases the tremors running through him but not the fear that restricts his breathing and leaves him with the urge to do something, to stop the deaths that he feels are always mere moments away, even if the orcs lurking in the shadows turn out to be merely shadows and no Ringwraiths come screaming down from the sky.

“I’ll go see about something to eat,” Bilbo says off to his right, and Thorin nods mutely as Dwalin releases him from the embrace and makes to rise.

“I’ll take first watch, shall I?”

“You needn’t bother. Nothing attacks us until the floor collapses to send us down into the tunnels.”

“You mean nothing attacked you last time. For all we know, the Nazgûl have planned an ambush.” He scowls when Thorin’s head shoots up, alarm undoubtedly etched into his features. “Relax, Thorin. I’ll be fine.”

Thorin stares down at the stone floor, willing his hands to halt their trembling. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Ach, you’re a damned fool sometimes, you know that?” Thorin looks up, confused, and despite Dwalin’s tone of frustration his eyes are uncharacteristically gentle. “ _Nadad_ , I understand your fear, but I promise you, I will be fine. Whatever may happen tonight, it is not your fault.” “But I have led you down into the tunnels – ”

Dwalin reaches out and places a hand over his mouth, stopping him midsentence. “Not. Your. Fault. Aye?”

Thorin shoves his hand away, snapping out angrily, “Whose fault is it, if not mine?”

“The goblins’?” Dwalin suggests. “The Ring’s? Sauron’s? There is no shortage of others to blame, so you need not hold yourself accountable for every mishap. You are changing events, and thus you cannot claim that you should know everything that is to come, because you _do not know_. No one blames you for anything that has happened, save yourself. It is not your fault, Thorin. Aye?”

Thorin shakes his head fiercely, unable to continue speaking, because it _is_ his fault, always, that the shadow touches his kin. Always.

_~~(if I could have been stronger, faster, cleverer, **better** , then maybe, maybe – )~~ _

“Thorin.” Dwalin’s voice is fierce and intent, and despite the iron strength lacing his words the hand that reaches out to lift Thorin’s chin so their eyes meet is achingly gentle. “This is not your fault,” he says, and in his eyes there is a stubborn ferocity that will not be denied but also a hint of anguish and concern. “None of this is. Why do you insist upon taking upon yourself burdens that you need not bear?”

“Because someone must,” Thorin says softly, wishing he could tear his gaze away from the fierce worry in Dwalin’s grey eyes. “And who will it be, if not I?”

“You judge yourself on impossible standards and consider anything but your complete omniscience a failure,” Balin says calmly but unhesitatingly, and Thorin’s hands clench around the fabric of his bedroll as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” he asks in a voice that is scarcely audible.

“Firstly, I suggest becoming comfortable with the fact that you make mistakes,” Dwalin suggests in a tone of dead seriousness.

“Unacceptable.”

“Oh, for Mahal’s _sake_ , Thorin!” Balin shouts, flinging his hands in the air in a rare display of absolute frustration. “Why not?”

“Because whenever I make mistakes, you _die!_ ” Thorin screams, striking Dwalin’s hand away and shoving himself backwards until he meets the cold stone wall.

Dead silence falls, Thorin’s words echoing in the small cave, and he forcibly redirects his gaze down towards the stone floor, tremors running through his entire body and he feels the desperate urge to flee rising in his heart, one that he only just manages to quash.

“Damnit, Thorin, I’m sorry,” Dwalin says, a heavy hand falling on Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin shakes his head automatically.

“It’s not your fault,” he says without hesitation, even if he still cannot meet Dwalin’s eyes.

“Yes, it is, Thorin,” Dwalin replies softly, and then, gentle and careful in the manner of one soothing a spooked animal, “Look at me?”

Thorin swallows hard and carefully meets his shield-brother’s uncharacteristically gentle eyes and the younger Fundinul smiles and slowly tilts his head to lightly tap his forehead against Thorin’s, ensuring every movement is carefully telegraphed so that Thorin has enough time to move out of the way if he so chooses.

And Thorin still feels horribly on edge and twitchy but that doesn’t stop him from shoving Dwalin in irritation. “Stop that,” he growls in exasperation. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, in that case,” Dwalin replies, and Thorin barely has time to register his brother’s sudden mischievous grin before Dwalin is wrapping ridiculously strong arms around him and squeezing the air from his lungs.

Thorin makes a horribly undignified squawking noise in involuntary reaction, and then bats uselessly at Dwalin in a futile attempt to get him to _let go, for Mahal’s sake_. “Dwalin, _get off me!_ ”

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Dwalin says, before calmly releasing him and Thorin falls into a heap on his bedroll, glaring up at the Fundinul, who merely grins back cheekily like he had as a little lad in Erebor, tagging along behind his big brother and the sons and daughter of Thráin and getting into enough foolish mischief to rival Kíli and Fíli.

Is it possible that there was a time when Thorin was unconditionally happy?

“Oh no, he’s gone and made himself sad again,” Bofur says, merely grinning in response to Thorin’s glare, brown eyes sparkling with light at the same time as they are narrowed in concern.

Thorin lifts himself into a sitting position, carefully and unconsciously positioning himself with his back to the wall and the entrance to the cave within his line of sight. “I have not,” he protests, though without much heat.

“You have,” the Broadbeam miner replies, smiling with genuine reassurance at him even though the brown eyes have lost something of their light, replaced by sorrow, and it strikes agonizingly at Thorin’s heart to see it, to see the most cheerful of their Company lose his happiness for Thorin’s sake.

_Ash painting the sky black and a thunderous rumble that shakes the earth, stronger than Smaug, than the Balrog, than any being that ever walked this earth –_

“Don’t worry, though. I know a way to fix that.”

Thorin’s eyes widen in alarm, jerked out of his dark memories, and he tries to surreptitiously move away from the large gathering of dwarrow who are giving him identical smiles. “Don’t you dare – ”

Whatever kingly order he was about to give is cut off as the Company launches themselves at him, Fíli and Kíli first but the others not far behind, and within seconds Thorin has been thoroughly trapped in a mass of warm dwarrow.

Thorin directs a fierce and searing glare at the chuckling Fundinuls, before trying futilely to move out of where he has been firmly trapped, flopping back against the wall when it becomes clear to him that they will not be moving any time soon.

“ _King Thorin, we will follow you to whatever end, even unto Dagor Dagorath itself_ ,” Bifur swears fervently in Khuzdul, to agreeing murmurs from the rest of the Company.

“And yet it seems that obeying the simple directive ‘get off me’ is beyond your capabilities,” Thorin says grumpily.

“You always hugged me and Fíli when we were sad,” Kíli says, smiling up at him angelically, and Dwalin throws back his head and roars with laughter.

“Yes, but there is a large difference between one dwarf and an entire Company,” Thorin says in irritation, but he cannot help but smile back at his two lads.

“And you were the one doing the hugging, am I right?” Nori says with characteristic impertinence, and Thorin glares at him.

“All right, that’s enough for now,” Bilbo says, and as the Company disentangle themselves from the hug and move off for their own bedrolls, he rounds on Dwalin and snaps, “ _One minute_. I leave you alone for _one minute_ and then Thorin is having a nervous breakdown. _Explain yourself_.”

Dwalin’s shoulders hunch, and Thorin has to bite the side of his mouth to restrain his laughter as the fiercest warrior of their Company quails before a small Hobbit in a velvet dinner jacket and an absolutely adorable scowl on his small face.

“I’m sorry?” Dwalin tries helplessly, and Balin covers his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking as he tries to maintain his composure.

“You should be,” Bilbo snaps at him, spinning around on his heel and stalking towards Thorin, and, by proxy, Fíli and Kíli, who have stubbornly attached themselves to him.

“We’re sorry,” his sister-sons chorus automatically as Bilbo’s glare lands on them, and there is a choked noise of laughter from the general vicinity of Balin.

“You did nothing wrong,” Bilbo says, and then pauses as his glare lands on Fíli and becomes several times more intense.

“Fíli, heir of Durin,” Bilbo says in an impressive imitation of Dís, looking like a wolf in Hobbit form as he prowls towards Fíli.

Fíli swallows and then apparently decides that fleeing is the better part of valor and tries unsuccessfully to hide behind Thorin. “Uncle Thorin, help me!”

“Bilbo Baggins is a law unto himself; I cannot reason with him,” Thorin says seriously as Fíli attempts to hide himself within Thorin’s fur coat.

“ _You_ ,” Bilbo says, leveling a stern finger at Fíli, and Thorin suddenly wonders if his previous statement of Bilbo’s capabilities is not as exaggerated as he thought. “You just threw yourself off a _mountain_. You could have been killed!”

“Thorin could have died!” Fíli protests unanimously with Kíli, abandoning his futile attempts to hide and lifting his chin stubbornly, his core of mithril suddenly showing through.

“If anyone is going to be throwing themselves off a mountain to save Thorin’s life, it will be _me!_ ” Bilbo shouts, and then blinks, visibly realizing what exactly he just said.

Thorin swallows hard, feeling a sudden hope rising in his heart, a thought he long ago cast aside as hopeless –

_I loved you since the day we met, you know?_

“Bilbo?” Kíli says, looking at Bilbo with a strange excitement. “Do you really mean – ”

“Yes,” Bilbo says, meeting Thorin’s eyes directly as he lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, something fierce shining in his eyes. “Yes. I do.”

Thorin swallows hard, then again, and the rest of the Company seem to be scarcely breathing as Bilbo’s amber eyes linger on Thorin’s, a faint smile quirking his lips upwards.

Thorin is trembling faintly, but he scarcely notices it as he opens his mouth, his lips beginning to form the first syllables of Bilbo’s name –

And that is when the floor collapses out from underneath them.

* * *

Thorin falls the last few feet out of the cavernous slide that leads into the domain of the goblins, a drop of nearly twelve feet onto solid, unyielding wood, but he almost immediately shoves himself up onto his elbows, catching a glimpse of the goblins rushing towards them in the distance before he redirects his gaze to his Company.

Aside from a few winces and groans they seem unscathed from the fall, and Thorin almost collapses in relief, but it is short-lived indeed as the first of the goblins lets out a snarl and springs for Bombur’s unprotected throat.

The dwarf twists to one side, and hands fly to weapons, dwarven steel ringing loudly as it is unsheathed, but the blade that impales the goblin is an Elven short sword, glowing brilliant blue and blazing in the cavern.

Bilbo pulls the sword from the goblin’s throat, his delicate features set into a mask of fury, and as his blazing amber eyes sweep the area Thorin wonders how the goblins manage to keep advancing.

“ _To arms!_ ” Thorin and Bilbo roar in unison, and Thorin’s hand instantly flies to Orcrist, the goblins crying out in alarm and fear as they lay eyes upon the fearsome Goblin-Cleaver.

“ _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ ” Dwalin and Bifur roar as they throw themselves into the fray, and Thorin falls back to stand beside Bilbo, Orcrist flashing brightly in the firelit gloom of Goblintown and spraying black blood over dark wood.

“Go,” Thorin says, gritting his teeth as he blocks a heavy goblin mace. “We’ll buy you what time we can!”

Bilbo shoots a concerned look at Thorin, then nods and carefully sheathes Sting, slipping easily into the chaos and disappearing in the melee.

“ _Stay safe, âzyungel_ ,” Thorin murmurs in quiet Khuzdul, before turning back to the fray, Orcrist whirling in an arc of shining sapphire death as she slices unrelentingly through their enemies, living up to her name of the Goblin-Cleaver.

A cry startles Thorin from his concentration, and he spins around to see Fíli staggering back, his shoulder bleeding profusely where a goblin arrow found its way past his guard.

“ _Nadad!_ ” Kíli shouts, and then he whips an arrow from his bowstring swifter than lightning and the goblin archer falls with a cry, a dwarven arrow through his eye.

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and Thorin spins around in the nick of time, Orcrist clashing against the goblin’s sword seconds before it would have cut into Thorin’s throat.

Thorin sets his jaw grimly and turns back into the fray, the separate goblins blurring together as he cuts them down. At the start, Dwalin is standing at his side, roaring in barely-comprehensible Khuzdul, but then as the battle progresses it becomes first Dori, then Bofur and Bombur, who fight beside him.

A particularly vicious goblin lunges forward and Bofur swears as it drags its claws along his arm before lunging forward with his mattock, Bombur striking the killing blow as his brother twists a bandage around his arm one-handed.

Only Thorin has been standing idle for far too long as he watches the two brothers, and a growl heralds another goblin lunging forward, and though Thorin brings Orcrist up from where her point has fallen to rest upon the wood floor beneath his feet, he knows it will be too late.

The goblin cries out as a stone strikes it right in the eye, one hand flying up to the injury, and that gives Thorin the few seconds he needs to bring Orcrist’s shining blade up and slice diagonally across its stomach, black blood spattering on the boards.

Thorin glances over his shoulder and sees Ori standing atop a small stack of bodies, eyes hard and jaw firmly set as he takes aim again, the next shot striking a goblin about to cut down Glóin as the Firebeard battles three more of them at once, the stone bouncing off its head and sending it falling over the edge.

"Thorin, there’s too many of them!” Balin yells over to him from where he stands back-to-back with his younger brother, his great sword flashing before him.

“We have to give Bilbo more time!” Thorin yells back, Orcrist singing in his hands as he cuts down the goblins lunging for him, blue light flashing erratically across their faces as he fights.

Balin scowls mightily and then turns his attention back to the fight, shouting in enraged Khuzdul as a goblin lunges for Dwalin’s unprotected side, sword flashing as it falls with a scream. Dwalin nods in thanks to his brother and then the two lunge into the fray together, dwarven-made blades spinning around them in a lethal dance.

Thorin leaps into the battle after them, Bofur and Bombur following him into the fight, Bombur’s ladle and sword working in brutal, efficient unison and Bifur roaring in Khuzdul as he flings himself after his cousins, black-and-white braids flying about him as he whirls in a berserker rage.

And then a shout of “ _Dori!_ ” echoes through the air, and Thorin’s head snaps around to see the silver-haired weaver go down from a blow to the head from a goblin’s mace.

The goblin looms over Dori’s prone from, the dwarf struggling to his feet but too slowly –

And then a knife buries itself hilt-deep in the creature’s hand at the same moment a smooth stone strikes it in the skull with bruising force, and Dori’s younger brothers leap out of the melee to stand over their fallen brother, Ori’s eyes burning with a wild fury that Thorin well remembers in the aftermath of Khazad-dûm as he tried to hold the scribe back from charging back into their mountain kingdom to avenge his lost brother even as Dori sobbed in misery upon the stones beside Kheled-zarâm.

Nori lunges forward with blades flashing and Ori follows without hesitation, but for all that Thorin knows the fierce warrior that hides within the body of their young scribe, he is also armed with nothing more than a slingshot, which only has the power to temporarily distract and cannot help him in the slightest when an enemy looms in his path with weapon raised to kill –

_Fire burns in the sky and screams echo in the air as Thorin stands on unsteady legs in the ash and flame that is all that remains of the Shire, another home left desolate, another people left to wander the expanse of Middle-earth, and all for harboring him, the king of a broken line and a dead kingdom_.

_“We need to get out of here now!” Éowyn screams, her sword flashing as she cuts down an orc lunging for Thorin, or rather the hidden golden band that hangs at his throat._

_“No!” Dori screams, something breaking in his eyes as he lunges fruitlessly towards the small knot of warriors desperately holding off the oncoming army, but he cannot break through the orcs between him and his youngest brother (only brother now), not even with his famed strength. “Ori!”_

_As if summoned by the weaver’s fear, a huge mace takes one of the Elven warriors from the fallen Lothlórien in the side, sending him flying against a nearby tree, where he crumples, lying motionless._

_A horrible premonition rises in Thorin’s heart, and he finds some small reserve of strength left in him and manages to cut down the orcs lying in his path, lunging forward towards Ori, who stands alone facing down an orc so massive it nearly reaches Azog’s height._

_“Thorin!” Éowyn yells after him, but Thorin **cannot** let another of his Company die, not when so many of them have been lost, not when he can save him. _

_Not another, not little Ori._

_But despite Thorin’s best attempts, he is still too far away when the massive orc makes his way past Ori’s guard and strikes his arm with shattering force, Ori’s mace falling to the ground as his arm breaks with a sickening crack._

_Dori screams in fear and throws himself at the orcs, and Thorin brings Orcrist whirling through his foes with a wild, desperate abandon he does not ever recall feeling, not even as Erebor fell before his eyes or Balin collapsed from an orc arrow to his chest._

_Ori lifts his head, face tight with pain as he raises his small slingshot to aim directly at the eye of the orc looming above him._

“Khama Uzbad Thorin Thráinul,” _Ori snarls through gritted teeth as he pulls the slingshot back._

_“Ori!”_

_“Get down!” Éowyn roars, and Thorin hears the whistling of another of the fiery shells streaking through the sky towards them, but he doesn’t heed the warning, desperation in his heart as he lunges forward through the orcs towards Ori –_

“Khazâd ai-mênu,” _Ori utters in a voice afire with defiance, and he lets his stone fly, striking the orc in the eye and making it howl in rage and pain as it staggers back –_

_The whistling in the air changes to a shrill scream and Thorin hears a thud as Éowyn tackles Dori to the ground, but he doesn’t turn as Ori turns his head to meet Thorin’s eyes with a calm dignity that Thorin knows entirely too well._

_And then the dark metal shell strikes the ground and Thorin is flung back with the force of the explosion, striking his head hard against the ground as the fire blinds him –_

Dori’s scream echoes back into reality as one of the goblins strikes Ori in the stomach hard enough to leave him gasping and then holds a dirty blade to the dwarf’s throat, snarling, “Lay down your weapons, or the little one dies!”

Barely has the goblin finished speaking when the sound of weapons clattering to the ground sounds in the cavern, the entire Company throwing down their blades without waiting to see what Thorin orders.

Thorin instantly releases Orcrist, letting her clatter to the ground, and every goblin present flinches as Orcrist gleams with a fierce light that is almost blinding, and Thorin can feel her desperate need for vengeance against those who would dare to harm her Company, one that mirrors his own.

The goblins swiftly gather up the Company’s fallen weapons, although the sight of the filth laying hands upon Orcrist would be enough to send him into another attack were it not for the blade at Ori’s throat.

Only when every weapon has been collected does the goblin release Ori, and almost instantly he is enfolded into the protective embrace of his two brothers, along with Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur.

“Move!” the goblins bark at them, striking Thorin in the back with the handle of a mace, and he staggers slightly before following them down the unfortunately familiar path to the Goblin King’s throne.

“Uncle, what do we do now?” Fíli whispers in his ear as he draws close to Thorin, and Thorin casts a careful glance at the surrounding goblins before replying.

“Stall for time so Bilbo can find the Ring,” Thorin whispers back. “The Ring _must_ be found.”

“And be ready to run?” Kíli guesses, drawing alongside them.

Thorin nods minutely, and at the motion one of the goblins strikes him with the flat of his blade. Thorin levels a glare at it, but remains silent as they are ushered down the path towards the throne, though not without a considerable amount of struggling and cursing on the part of the rest of the dwarrow.

_Mahal, wherever Bilbo is now, keep him safe,_ Thorin prays desperately as they are shoved roughly up to the throne. _Please._

“Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?” the Goblin King demands, and then his eyes fall upon the glowing blade of Orcrist and then upon Thorin where he stands in the middle of the dwarven huddle, and a dark grin twists his lips.

“Thorin Oakenshield, the Nazgûl-Slayer, Ringbearer, King Beneath The Mountain,” the Goblin King says, sketching a false bow to him. “Yes, I know who you are,” he says in response to the expression of shock that Thorin is unable to hide in time. “The Dark Lord told me to expect you, and a group of armed warriors, to come into my domain, in search of the Ring of Power.”

Thorin suddenly feels a wave of fear, for if the Goblin King knows who he is, then surely he must have sent out groups to lie in wait within the lower tunnels.

What if he has just sent Bilbo straight into a trap?

“Thirteen,” the Goblin King murmurs as if to himself, jolting Thorin out of his thoughts, and then the huge goblin spins around a strikes the goblin who captured Ori in the head with his massive staff. “You fool!” the Goblin King snarls. “Thirteen, not fourteen as the messenger said there would be! You have let one of them slip away!”

“Forgive me, your Malevolence,” the goblin pleads desperately, but the Goblin King only makes a disgusted noise deep in his throat and spins away to loom over the Company.

“Do tell, where is your missing friend, the Halfling?” he demands, and Thorin lifts his chin defiantly.

“I will never tell you,” he vows, and the Goblin King laughs.

“Then you will die a miserable and agonizing death at our hands, here in the depths of Goblintown,” the Goblin King says, and turns to his subjects. “Bring up the Mangler! Bring up the Bone-Breaker!”

“Do what you like to me,” Thorin snaps, shoving past the other goblins and striding forward to stand before the Goblin King. “I will not tell you anything of the fourteenth member of our Company.”

The Goblin King turns back to him, for a moment looking as if he had forgotten that Thorin was even there, but then he smiles lightly. “Oh, not you,” he says as he strides up to Thorin. “Azog and the Dark Lord want you alive and unharmed. But the others…”

Thorin swallows hard, feeling a frisson of terror running through him at the thought of his Company being harmed, but then he shakes his head firmly, drawing himself back to the present, though in the part of his mind where Orcrist’s song always echoes, he feels a small mithril-bright line of defiance added to her song.

“Ah, the Biter,” the Goblin-King says, bending over and lifting Orcrist’s shining blade, studying it with a detached admiration. “A beautiful weapon indeed,” he murmurs as he hefts Orcrist into the air, his eyes straying towards the abyss yawning beneath their feet, disappearing into darkness.

“Nori!” Thorin yells, and his prediction does not fail him as the thief instantly sends a dagger into the Goblin King’s eye, causing him to shout in pain and drop Orcrist before he can throw her over the edge. Thorin lunges forward, his hand closing over her hilt and sweeping her out in a swift motion that causes the goblins to jump back in alarm, and instantly the others are lunging forward through the goblins and grabbing whatever weapons they can find as they fight back against their previous captors.

Thorin spins around in an arc of death, neatly severing several goblins’ heads at the neck, and then Balin cuts down another coming for his throat and grasps Thorin’s arm, shouting, “Thorin, we have to get out of here now!”

“But Bilbo – ”

“We’ve bought all the time we can for him, now we have to move!” Balin roars, and Thorin shakes his head hard, sharply reminding himself that Balin is right. The Company are too outnumbered to fight for long, and now that they have escaped the Goblin King’s clutches once it is only Thorin who will be ordered to be taken alive, and Thorin _will not_ allow his kin and Company to die.

Orcrist hums in his mind as if in agreement, and Thorin grimly nods to Balin and roars, “Make for the exit!”

“And where are you supposing _that_ is?” Glóin bellows over the sounds of combat, growling through clenched teeth as his axe whirls in a swift barrage of blows.

“Sunlight!” Thorin shouts back, and then a goblin lunges for his throat, forcing him to defend and strike back, and then speech becomes impossible as a seemingly-infinite number of goblins surges at them from every direction.

Orcrist blurs in the air before him, a sapphire streak of lightning in his hands, and the battle merges together until he can scarcely register individual moments, only has a faint awareness of Fíli and Kíli standing at his side, Fíli’s twin blades flashing and Kíli firing arrows with a speed that many would have said only an elf could achieve.

“Thorin!” Dwalin cries out, and Orcrist shrieks a warning, but it comes too late as the flung dagger strikes Thorin in the side, below the ribs, and his armour deflects the worst of it but it still sends fire lancing through him. Thorin staggers, Orcrist dipping down towards the ground, and the goblin he has been fighting takes the opportunity immediately, lunging forward with his blade leveled at Thorin’s throat –

A shriek of metal on metal echoes in the air as Fíli’s twin blades catch the goblin’s sword, the golden-haired prince of Durin standing with gritted teeth as he holds the strike back, and in that moment Kíli takes Thorin’s arm and shoves him into the center of the rough circle the Company have formed before swiftly putting arrow to bow and shooting the goblin in the foot to ensure he does not hit his brother by mistake.

In that instant of distraction, Fíli swiftly cleaves the goblin’s head from its shoulders and steps back, closing the circle to allow Thorin a moment to recover.

“Uncle?” Fíli asks breathlessly as his blades flash, killing any goblin who attempts to attack his brother while the younger prince is distracted with his archery.

“I’m fine,” Thorin says as he swiftly removes the stained blade from his side and presses down on the injury, ignoring the flash of pain.

Suddenly, Bifur staggers, an arrow blossoming from his left arm, and Thorin shouts, “Kíli!” in automatic reflex, the archer prince spinning around and instantly shooting down the goblin archer.

But in the few seconds of distraction, a goblin lunges at Kíli’s unprotected back. Fíli cuts it down instantly, but in that moment, another goblin finds its way past Fíli’s guard as he is distracted defending his brother.

Thorin lunges forward as Fíli falls from the blow to his head, a wordless scream rising in his throat, but as Kíli turns another goblin leaps for him, and Thorin is forced to cut it down even as his eyes linger on Fíli as he struggles to regain his footing.

The goblin lifts its club over its head, aiming at the back of Fíli’s neck, where a single such blow could kill. Thorin and Kíli lunge forward, Kíli putting an arrow to his bow, but then another group of goblins explodes out of a side tunnel with teeth bared and weapons raised to kill, and Thorin knows he will not make it in time.

“ _Fíli!_ ” he roars as his elder sister-son struggles to stand, visibly dazed, and Thorin knows he cannot make it in time to save Fíli’s life.

_Forgive me,_ he thinks in agony as Fíli looks over at him, eyes screaming for Thorin to flee.

_Ice gleaming underneath a pale sky and weak winter sun, and as his sister-son falls to the snow and stone, blood pooling around him, he understands his father’s agonized scream that horrible day at Azanulbizar, when he saw Frérin fall and could do nothing to save him._

The goblin brings its club down –

and then it goes flying as a huge scarlet dwarven war-hammer slams into its side, falling over the edge of the wooden platform and vanishing into the darkness with a scream.

“ _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ ” Dáin Ironfoot roars as he leaps into the fray, spinning in an enraged circle and driving back the goblins, and Thorin’s blade flashes, cutting down any of the dark creatures who happen to flee in his direction as Kíli shoots down any who attempt to flee down the tunnels.

“Cousin!” Dáin calls to Thorin, beaming over at him as he carefully helps Fíli to his feet. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Thorin laughs despite himself as he falls into Dáin’s solid embrace, resting his head on the other’s shoulder and trying to keep himself from crying from the sheer relief that Fíli is still alive. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for saving him.”

“Of course I saved him,” Dáin replies, and he gently grasps Thorin’s shoulders and steps back so they are looking into each other’s eyes. “He might be your sister-son, but he’s my kin too, you know.”

“But still,” Thorin says, and he has to swallow hard to force out the next words out, “thank you.”

“Don’t you start crying on me now, Oakenshield,” Dáin teases lightly, hefting his great war-hammer and turning to face the goblin horde. “Let’s give these bastards a good hammering, aye?”

Thorin nods, lifting Orcrist in his hands, and as he turns he sees Fíli, who still leans slightly on his brother but appears otherwise recovered.

“Thorin,” Fíli starts, but Thorin cuts him off by enfolding him in an embrace, ignoring the pulse of pain from the knife-wound in his side.

“Stop _scaring_ me like that,” he murmurs in his sister-son’s ear, and Fíli laughs weakly, hugging Thorin in return before they pull apart.

“Now let’s get out of here,” Thorin says, settling his shoulders back before spinning around and flinging himself into the melee, his Company following him with roared battle cries and howls of defiance.

“I remember the way out!” Dáin bellows over to Thorin over the cacophony of combat, and Thorin nods, sending Orcrist into the throat of a goblin that tries to attack him from the left side.

“Follow Dáin!” he roars to the Company, who reply with nods and shouted acknowledgements, weapons flashing as they force their way through the attacking goblins, whose numbers have not thinned despite the fact that every weapon the Company bears is stained black with the creatures’ blood and Kíli and Ori are almost out of ammunition.

“Here!” Dáin roars suddenly, and Thorin is broken out of his battle-haze to see that Dáin stands several feet to his right, at the mouth of a tunnel sloping downward into the mountain, and Thorin cuts down a goblin that was bringing a mace swinging down towards his skull and runs for the tunnel entrance with the goblins in pursuit.

Ori draws his slingshot back and then releases the string, and a goblin behind him cries out in pain as the stone hits it, and then Thorin is inside the tunnel and Dáin’s war-hammer strikes down any others pursuing him.

Thorin leans against the stone, feeling his heart racing wildly and a faint tremor of weariness in his hands, and he closes his eyes and breathes in and out deeply in an attempt to calm his racing heart.

A goblin howls in pain, and Thorin opens his eyes to find a breathless Dwalin and Balin joining them, having defended the Company members from the majority of the goblins as they fled to the tunnel.

“Stay close,” Dáin says as he moves deeper into the tunnels. “These tunnels can confuse even a dwarf’s ability to sense the stone.”

“How did you find us?” Kíli asks, and Dáin huffs a laugh as he strikes down a goblin that suddenly looms out of a tunnel to their left.

“I followed the sounds of combat, how else?” he replies as he swiftly leads them through the tunnel system. “None of us is exactly subtle.”

Kíli snorts, and his sister-son appears on the verge of saying something else when an arrow ricochets off the stone mere inches from his head.

Every dwarf in the Company spins around, their weapons coming up, to see the goblins steadily pouring down the tunnels after them, the little ambient light reflecting off their drawn weapons and gleaming eyes.

“Run!” Thorin orders unnecessarily, and Kíli and Ori fire back at their pursuers, but despite their best efforts the goblins swiftly gain on them, until the sound of steel clashing against steel echoes through the tunnels, Orcrist flashing beside Grasper and Keeper as Thorin and Dwalin hold off the attackers from the rest of the Company.

Thorin catches a descending club with Orcrist, and as he holds it back his side screams in protest, nearly making Thorin drop his blade as he shoves the goblin back and slashes across its unprotected chest.

They round a corner and the light suddenly changes from primarily the searing glow of Orcrist to the gentler golden light of the setting sun, and the goblins begin to pull back, faces contorted into pained grimaces at the light streaming into the tunnel.

And then Thorin screams in agony as _fire_ explodes within his mind, his legs going out from underneath him as the Ring’s darkness slices into his heart, searing, burning, _breaking_ –

* * *

The Witch-King’s head jerks upwards, turning unerringly towards the place where the Ring’s presence burning like a beacon in his mind, in all their minds, bright and enticing and impossible to ignore.

“ _Return to Azog and the son of Thrór,_ ” the Witch-King hisses to one of his other Nazgûl. “ _Tell them the Ring has been found. Lead them to it._ ”

The Nazgûl nods its cloaked head and brings its Fell-beast around towards where the Warg-riders have been tracking the Company across the mountains as the Witch-King dives towards the closest place to the Ring, a wooded outcrop upon the mountain.

Soon, they will have the Ring of Power in their grasp, and Thorin Oakenshield, the Nazgûl-Slayer, shall be dead.

* * *

Thorin only faintly hears the cries of alarm as he strikes the ground with bruising force, Orcrist clattering from his hands and onto the ground.

The goblins howl and surge forward, Dwalin roars with rage and lunges forward to repel them, but Thorin barely registers it around the sense of darkness tearing into his mind, memories flashing in the corners of his vision, the Ring’s soft whispering twisting at his mind and heart and drowning him in shadows until he cannot tell reality from its lies.

A hand closes around his arm and pulls him upright, running for the entrance, and at the touch of sunlight upon his face Thorin manages to open his eyes, forcing himself to stand even though he still hears the soft whispers in his mind and the echoes of the words in his heart.

“Thorin,” Fíli and Kíli say together, and Thorin manages to turn and tries to walk over to them, but the moment he no longer has Dwalin’s hand on his arm to steady him, he sways and has to grab ahold of a nearby tree for support.

“What in Durin’s name was that?” Ori asks in concern, and Thorin carefully sinks down onto the ground and tries to slow his throbbing heartbeat.

“I have good news and I have bad news,” he says. “The good news is that Bilbo has found the Ring of Power.”

“And the bad news?” Bofur asks.

Thorin smiles and turns to look towards the clearing further along on the outcrop, where he remembers calling Bilbo a deserter, and as if on cue the Witch-King of Angmar lands in the midst of the clearing on his Fell-beast, Morgul blade already in hand.

“Ah,” Bofur says, carefully hefting his mattock and looking around in concern.

The rest of the Nazgûl aside from one come in to land in the trees around them, forming a rough circle surrounding the Company.

Thorin forces himself to his feet, holding out his hand to Dwalin for Orcrist, and his shield-brother instantly places the sword in his hand, coming to stand close beside Thorin.

“Do not allow their blades to touch you,” Thorin says as he lifts Orcrist and steps forward.

“ _Oakenshield_ ,” the Witch-King hisses in Black Speech, dismounting and stepping towards him, the others following suit in eerie unison.

“ _Baruk Khazâd,_ ” the Company whispers softly in unison as they ready their weapons.

“ _Kill them all._ ”

“ _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ ”

* * *

“Glóin, they’re weak to fire!” Thorin roars as he charges towards the Witch-King, Orcrist humming in anticipation in his hands.

“Aye!” the Firebeard axeman yells instantly, and Thorin hopes desperately he’s moving to light the pines around them afire, because otherwise the other members of the Company will not stand a chance, but he cannot look for the Wraith stands mere feet away from him, Morgul blade gleaming with a dark, malevolent light in the setting sun.

At the last second, Thorin spins to the left, Orcrist dropping for a low slash towards the legs before swiftly rising towards the throat, but the Witch-King anticipates his feint and the blades clash with a harsh screech of metal and sparks, Orcrist’s blue glow blazing brightly between them and yet not illuminating at all the face beneath the dark fabric hood.

“ _Du bekar!_ ” Dwalin roars suddenly, his axes whirling in a swift arc towards the Witch-King’s throat, and in the second between the shout and the strike landing, the Witch-King kicks Thorin away, twisting his sword free to meet Dwalin’s blow.

Thorin, still unsteady from the Ring’s attack upon his mind, only barely manages to keep his footing, staggering and gripping tightly to a branch for support as he tries to stop the world from spinning around him.

A sudden cold wind blows against his back, at odds with the late summer warmth, and Thorin instantly whirls, a Morgul blade descending to bite deep into the tree where his head was mere seconds before, and as it is wrenched free, Thorin cannot help but notice that the tree has already started to become diseased and sickened, twisting in on itself.

As the blade is pulled free, Thorin lunges, Orcrist flashing in the air and forcing the Nazgûl to deflect as he forces the dark creature back, and with every strike he can hear a sharp clear sound within his mind as Orcrist’s Elven magic lashes out at the dark creatures.

“Dwalin!” Balin yells behind him, and Thorin whips around to see Dwalin flying into a tree, landing with a grunt at its base as the Witch-King stalks toward him, black cloak whipping about it in an unfelt wind.

Thorin grits his teeth, shaking his head hard to ward off the memories of watching Dwalin die at the gates of Erebor, and instead blocks the strike his Nazgûl opponent attempted to get past his guard whilst he was distracted, kicking the fell creature off the edge of the cliff where it vanishes with a harsh scream.

Thorin spins around and tries to shove his way towards Dwalin, but almost instantly another rises up in his path and he has to suppress a scream of frustration and fear as Dwalin rises to unsteady legs, clearly outmatched by the leader of this fell company.

Thorin trades a few hurried blows with the Nazgûl, but it seems intent upon barring his way and does not flinch aside despite the deep slash he inflicts along its left arm, holding him back as the Witch-King attacks Dwalin, steadily wearing him down as the dwarven warrior is forced back against the tree line.

“ _Nadad!_ ” Balin shouts, followed by an echoing clash of blades as Balin unsuccessfully attempts to make his way past the Nazgûl he is embroiled in combat with, before Dáin’s war-hammer strikes the creature in the back, distracting it long enough for Balin to slip free and charge towards his brother, the Lord of the Iron Hills holding the Nazgûl back from pursuit with a fierce and feral grin upon his lips.

The Witch-King brings his sword down towards Dwalin’s head, and then Balin tackles him from the side, knocking him away from the younger Fundinul. The Nazgûl flings Balin away and turns towards him where he is carefully getting to his feet, slightly favoring his left leg where the Nazgûl’s gauntlets bit into the flesh.

And then the Witch-King shrieks in agony as fire explodes along its cloak, Glóin letting out a triumphant roar as the flames lick up the small fire he has built and ignite the pinecones neatly laid out atop it. Ori instantly lunges for the fire, knitted gloves closing around one of the pinecones and flinging it over Dori’s head and directly into the face of his Nazgûl. The fell creature screams in agony, sword falling from its hand as it bats unsuccessfully at the flames, and Dori takes the opportunity to strike the creature across the chest with his bolas at the same moment as Nori buries his sword hilt-deep into the creature’s throat, and it collapses to the ground in a heap of charred and burning cloth.

“Stoke the fire, quickly!” Thorin roars over the sounds of combat, his eyes fixed upon the swiftly-darkening sky, still devoid of Gandalf and the Eagles.

And then a bone-chilling howl echoes through the mountains, and Thorin freezes before slowly turning to where Balin stands beside his brother, seeing the same recognition in the eyes of the two sons of Fundin.

Warg-riders.

_Azog._

One of the Nazgûl screams in answer to the cries, resulting in another shrill shriek echoing through the stones towards them, the fell cries chilling the air despite the summer heat and the crackling flames.

Without warning, the Witch-King, cloak no longer aflame but the black fabric nonetheless scorched, leaps from the ground towards Dwalin and Balin, only Thorin’s shout of warning saving them from being impaled instantly, and even then the Morgul blade comes dangerously close to Balin as he twists out of the way. Dwalin’s features twist in rage and he immediately lunges forwards with axes blurring in his hands, the Witch-King’s sword spinning in rapid circles to deflect the dwarven axes.

One of Kíli’s remaining arrows, the shaft lit aflame, soars through the air and plunges towards the creature, but impossibly the Witch-King kicks Dwalin away and twists to the side, bringing his sword around in the same movement so his blade slices the arrow neatly in two, the halves falling uselessly to the ground where they are kicked aside by his armoured boot.

Dwalin rolls easily to his feet and steps forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Balin, both brothers now nearly-identical in their fierce expressions and stubborn stances. The two dwarves lunge forward, moving in a deadly combined fighting style that rivals even that of Fíli and Kíli, but the captain of the Nazgûl is simply too fast for them, single blade moving so quickly that it blurs as he easily counters the twin strategy of the two greatest warriors of the current generation.

The Witch-King’s blade lashes out towards Balin’s throat, and Dwalin lunges forward in an attempt to counter but another of the Nazgûl springs into the fight, drawing the younger Fundinul away as Balin attempts to duel the Witch-King alone.

“ _Balin!_ ” Dwalin roars, and the Nazgûl he is fighting howls in agony as his axes bite deep into its flesh, tearing through the armour as if it is parchment. The younger Fundinul shoves his Nazgûl away and lunges for Balin, but even at that moment the creature has struck Balin’s weapon from his hands and his blade is descending for the kill.

The Morgul blade screams as it suddenly strikes a blade of Gondolin, nearly-palpable darkness hissing towards Orcrist’s blade, but the sword’s blazing light, stronger than even the stars in the sky, beats it back.

Thorin instantly twists Orcrist around, batting aside the Morgul blade and lunging in for the throat, but with the same impossible speed the Witch-King counters and strikes back, their weapons clashing violently against one another.

Orcrist screams fierce, wild defiance in Thorin’s heart as they trade blows, flaring brightly enough to illuminate the entire clearing every time their weapons clash. Thorin sees only distantly the flames licking against the trees, scarcely hearing the cries of the other Nazgûl as the Company finally begin to beat them back, focused only upon the battle before him. The Witch-King’s blade dances so quickly it is a blur even to his eyes, and only the minutest of twitches in the arms allow him to block the oncoming strikes, and he knows it is only the creature’s surprise when he blocks every strike no matter how swiftly it moves that even allows him to strike at it.

Suddenly, Orcrist screams a warning to him, and he blinks away the hints of dark magic in his vision to see the blade swiftly descending in to run him through, an attack he knows is calculated to infect him with the Morgul taint upon the blade. Thorin swiftly sidesteps the strike and steps in close, Orcrist flashing as she sweeps across the Witch-King’s vulnerable left arm, and it shrieks in pain.

However, he has stepped in too close, and before he can move aside the creature wraps its gauntleted hand around his arm and flings him aside hard, striking against a nearby pine. Orcrist clatters from his hand, her song going quiet, and as he tries to lift his head and close his hand around her hilt the Witch-King steps between him and the fiercely-glowing blade of Gondolin, leveling the sword at his throat.

“ _Give us the Ring of Power_ ,” it intones fiercely, ignoring the roar of “ _Thorin!_ ” from the Company.

“Never,” Thorin replies coldly, eyes flickering to Orcrist momentarily, and the creature laughs darkly.

Flames explode against the tree behind the Witch-King, but the rest of the Company seems loath to try and hit the creature directly for fear of striking Thorin by mistake.

“ _We can sense it near here,_ ” the creature snarls in Black Speech, stepping closer but not dropping the blade it has at Thorin’s throat. “ _Give it to us, mighty king, or watch your companions die._ ” It laughs once more. “ _Again_.”

Thorin manages to keep himself from flinching at the memories that flash before his vision, and for a few moments he is not here on this small rocky outcrop at all but in the Shire or watching Erebor explode or within the depths of Khazad-dûm.

“Never,” Thorin repeats, and in response the Witch-King lifts the blade up to hover over his chest, and though he cannot see the creature’s face Thorin can hear its malicious grin in its voice.

“ _Die, then_ ,” it snarls, and then several things happen at once.

One of Kíli’s fiery arrows strikes the creature in the back, making it cry out; Thorin takes advantage of the distraction to lunge for Orcrist, leveling the blade at the creature’s chest at the same moment as he shoves himself to his feet, preparing to strike; and a glowing blue blade emerges from its chest, the Witch-King of Angmar falling over to land harmlessly at Thorin’s feet, a gaping hole through its heart. Bilbo Baggins, standing exactly where the fell creature was mere moments ago, spins Sting in his hand with an adorable little flourish, a smug grin upon his lips.

“I’m afraid no one is allowed to threaten Thorin Oakenshield with certain death in my presence,” Bilbo says to the creature’s corpse, eyes sparkling both with triumph and ferocity. “That includes Sauron’s dark servants.” He lifts his head to smile at Thorin, amber eyes bright. “It’s not flinging myself off a cliff for your sake, but it’ll have to do – mmph!”

“Master Baggins, you are truly the most extraordinary creature in all of Middle-earth,” Thorin murmurs in his ear as he hugs the small Hobbit close, feeling Bilbo’s heartbeat throbbing against his own.

“All I did was kill a servant of Sauron’s,” Bilbo protests, and Thorin laughs.

“This servant you speak of is an unspeakably evil being who has killed thousands, and you did not merely run him through, you managed to sneak up on him without any sort of magical assistance whatsoever. Gandalf spoke truly when he referred to the subtlety of Hobbits.” Thorin steps back, smiling down at ( _his_ ) Bilbo. “Though I am afraid you merely managed to banish him for a time, not kill him fully. Their life force is tied to that of the One Ring, the same as Sauron’s.”

Bilbo scowls mightily, an action which must have been intended to look fearsome but rather makes him look that much cuter. “Curses,” he grumbles, glaring down at the Witch-King’s fallen form.

“It was an impressive feat nonetheless,” Thorin says, smiling down at Bilbo, and the Hobbit slowly smiles back as he takes Thorin’s hand, the small creature’s warmth suffusing Thorin’s entire body.

And at that instant, their Warg pursuers release a horrible, echoing howl as they crash into the clearing, Azog’s pale white beast in the lead as Thorin’s old opponent charges into the fray.

“ _Oh, you’ve got to be joking!_ ” Dáin bellows at nobody in particular as his huge war-hammer strikes one of the Wargs in the head, its rider tumbling from the creature’s back to neatly impale itself upon one of Fíli’s twin blades.

“ _Oakenshield!_ ” Azog bellows instantly, leveling his mace right at Thorin as his Warg halts atop the same massive rock that Thorin recalls it standing upon before, although now facing in the opposite direction. “ _You reek of fear!_ ”

“I do not!” Thorin protests indignantly before he can stop himself, and Bilbo swiftly smothers his laugh with a cough.

Azog’s lips curl upwards in amusement and then his Warg bounds down from the rock and lunges straight at Thorin

Thorin darts to the right side as Bilbo leaps to the left and swiftly melts into the shadows, despite the glowing blade which should logically broadcast his position like a beacon. The Warg’s teeth snap at Thorin’s fur cloak as it passes, and Thorin attempts to leap aside only to abruptly spin aside as a Morgul blade pierces the ground mere inches from him.

The Nazgûl pulls it free from the ground, snarling ominously at him as Azog neatly spins around on his Warg, swiftly trapping Thorin in between them.

“ _He is mine_ ,” Azog snarls to the Nazgûl, and in that second of distraction Thorin sends Orcrist slashing in towards the Nazgûl’s sword-arm as Bilbo suddenly bursts out of seemingly nowhere and scores a deep slash across the Warg’s side, forcing Azog to regain control over the startled beast as the small Hobbit leaps aside just as another Warg-rider pounces on the same place he had just been. The Ringwraith howls in pain as Thorin strikes a shallow blow across its arm, but Thorin almost instantly spins around and leaps for Bilbo, bellowing, “Ori!” over his shoulder.

The cry is answered as a pinecone strikes the startled creature directly in the head, the sudden burst of flames resulting in a few of the Wargs shying in alarm. Thorin twists sharply around, using his right leg as a pivot point as he whirls Orcrist around, first from low at his side and up through the neck of a Warg on his left, then swinging across the abdomen of the rider on his right, before finally bringing the sword down into the spine of the same Warg, simultaneously using the handle to strike the other rider in the head before sprinting towards Bilbo.

The Hobbit twists easily around Azog’s Warg thanks to his small stature, but as Thorin watches the mace comes perilously close to his head, and for a moment it is not the blazing heat of a full forest fire in midsummer that surrounds him, but rather the bitter cold of a Northern winter. Thorin swallows hard and shakes his head, banishing the flashes of memory, but he cannot stop seeing Bilbo’s horribly small body lying still and cold upon the ice, bright scarlet blood upon his lips.

Thorin lunges forward, Orcrist flashing, and the distraction of the blazing sword combined with his sudden presence causes Azog to momentarily redirect his full attention to him rather than to the Hobbit within striking distance of him.

His Warg howls in pain as Sting bites deep into its flesh, and instantly Thorin rushes in and pulls Bilbo back, his hands trembling with alarm that makes Orcrist waver in the air despite his best attempts to still them.

“Thorin – ” Bilbo starts angrily, but something in Thorin’s expression makes him stop and instead he smiles reassuringly up at him and then shrugs, tilting his head to Azog as if to say, _Be my guest_.

Thorin grins in thanks back at him and then lunges forward towards Azog, Orcrist flashing in towards his throat only to be blocked with jarring force by the mace, and Thorin is forced to disengage immediately lest Azog physically overpower him.

Thorin mentally thanks Mahal that the Pale Orc has not yet replaced his claw-like false hand with a sword yet, as he had at the catastrophic Battle of the Five Armies when he had claimed the lives of Fíli and Bilbo, before swiftly dodging a charge by the white Warg. Behind him, Bilbo yells something incomprehensible that sounds vaguely like “ _For the Company!_ ” followed by the echoing ring of Elven steel against orcish iron.

Thorin swiftly spins around to face Azog once more, the mace descending down towards his head and barely blocked by Orcrist, before Thorin slashes towards the Warg’s legs, relying on Orcrist’s length to reach the beast from this distance, not daring to move in closer.

The Warg hisses as he strikes a glancing blow, but Azog merely retaliates with a sweeping blow that forces Thorin back, out of sword range but not out of the reach of Azog’s mace. The Pale Orc’s lips curl back from his teeth, and Thorin leaps out of the way, anticipating the lunge and using it to score a blow across the Warg’s shoulder, but though it hisses in pain, and is clearly moving slower as it pulls out of Thorin’s range once again, but it can still bear Azog’s weight.

“Ori! Pinecone!”

Thorin glances behind him momentarily, spotting Bilbo hurling a flaming pinecone into a clump of Wargs harassing Dori, Nori, Bombur, and Glóin, before diving into the chaos with Óin, Bifur, and Bofur in tow.

Thorin swiftly redirects his attention to the fight, but in his second of distraction Azog has lunged towards him, mace coming down and around in a swift sweeping motion towards his spine.

Thorin manages to twist out of the way, but the mace still slams against his side, and he gasps in pain as he is thrown violently to the ground. Azog turns his Warg around several feet away, about to come in for another pass when one of Nori’s daggers soars over Thorin’s head and buries itself in the beast’s hide, in the same shoulder as Thorin struck earlier. The Warg roars in pain, and in that second one of Fíli’s throwing axes strikes the beast’s leg, causing the creature to fold to the ground and spilling Azog off the beast’s back and onto the ground.

Thorin forces himself to his feet, but weakness brought upon earlier by the Ring has returned, and Thorin sways unsteadily on his feet as he rises.

_Thorin Oakenshield, Nazgûl-Slayer…_

Thorin shakes his head hard, swallowing back the nausea as the Ring curls itself through his mind, trying to force his attention back to the orc that stands before him. In his hand, Orcrist brightens to a light that is almost painful, as if trying to drive back the darkness in his mind.

Azog lunges forward and all Thorin can do is spin out of the way, the mace whistling to his right to strike the earth, before he lunges forward and tries to slice into the orc’s right arm, only to be blocked by its clawed hand. Azog’s mace counterattacks, and Thorin is forced to block with Orcrist, placing both hands on the hilt as he attempts to hold the orc off, but despite his best efforts his entire body trembles with unnatural weakness and he is forced to fall to one knee as he attempts to hold him back.

Thorin hears the sounds of approaching combat, but he doesn’t dare turn, doesn’t dare take his eyes off of Azog, but despite his attempts the orc still smiles darkly down at him as he forces Thorin to his knees.

Azog suddenly cries out in pain and spins around, Thorin’s arms at the sudden relief, only to have his heart stutter in alarm as Bilbo and his sister-sons appear behind Azog, Kíli entirely out of arrows now and holding his sword in place of his bow, and that in itself is terrifying, because the last time Thorin remembers seeing Kíli holding a sword was also the last time he saw his younger sister-son alive.

Fíli instantly lunges, twin swords blurring, and Bilbo neatly sweeps in around Azog’s guard, Sting flashing in towards his abdomen before a riderless Warg lunges in towards him and Bilbo is forced to turn and defend himself.

Kíli moves in to defend both his brother and Bilbo, but then Thorin forces himself to his feet, Orcrist flashing to slice across the throat of Azog’s Warg as its claws descend towards Kíli’s throat.

Fíli grunts in pain as Azog’s mace swings into him, knocking him back onto the ground, one of his swords clattering away as he strikes the ground. Azog steadily advances on him, and Thorin spins around and lunges towards Fíli, his heart throbbing wildly in panic, Kíli scarcely half a step behind him.

Bilbo shoves himself in between Azog and Fíli, his back straight and eyes fierce despite the huge size difference, and Azog chuckles and raises his mace threateningly as Bilbo refusing to back down.

And then Thorin slams into Azog from the side, knocking the giant Gundabad orc over, but in an instant Azog shoves himself over so that he is pinning Thorin, the clawed prosthetic hand around Thorin’s throat.

But almost instantly, Bilbo, Kíli, and Fíli lunge forward, and Azog has to rise to block their strikes, freeing Thorin, and then, _finally_ , there comes the screech of one of the great Eagles through the night as Gandalf at last arrives with much-needed reinforcements.

The Eagles come swooping down towards the ground, and Azog, after glancing around at the flock steadily moving up on their position, roars a retreat to the remaining orcs and leaps onto the back of the riderless Warg that had been holding Dáin and Dwalin back from attacking Azog, swiftly disappearing into the night, a triumphant cry rising up from the Company as they flee.

“Uncle, are you all right?” Fíli and Kíli ask in near-perfect synchrony as they lean down to help Thorin to his feet.

“Well enough,” Thorin says, swaying slightly on his feet before his sister-sons manage to steady him. He looks over towards Bilbo and smiles without any conscious decision. “I believe that is once more you have saved my life, Master Baggins.”

“More like twice more,” Bilbo corrects, and then he shoots Thorin a look that is equal parts fond and chiding. “ _Bilbo_.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, carefully taking first one step, then another, towards their (his) burglar and hiding the pain that shoots through his side and back as he moves.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says very quietly, seeming to linger excessively on every syllable as he looks up towards Thorin, amber eyes shining with a light that he remembers all too well from an icy mountain winter and blood upon Bilbo's lips and chest as he died.

_Love_.

Bilbo stands with only a step between them now, and even over the smell of burning pine and the stench of orc blood, he can still smell the sweet aroma of pipeweed and dark earth and green growth clinging to Bilbo – the scents of the Shire.

(Their hands slowly, carefully, intertwine: Bilbo’s right and Thorin’s left.)

Thorin distantly hears Orcrist clatter to the ground as he carefully reaches out towards Bilbo, hand hovering over the Hobbit’s shoulder, hesitant, unsure.

Bilbo tilts his head to the side, a slight challenging stubbornness within that small gesture, and then Thorin’s hand comes to rest on the back of Bilbo’s neck at the same moment that Bilbo steps forward, hand entangling in Thorin’s hair and closing the distance between them.

Bilbo’s lips taste of the fruity tea he served him that morning before they left, and also of warmth and love and comfort and _home_. Of _safety_.

Bilbo’s gentle fire curls softly around Thorin’s heart and banishes the touch of the Ring in his mind, the darkness holding no power against Bilbo’s strength, his mithril core and fiery heart.

Slowly, Thorin pulls back, Bilbo’s amber eyes slowly fluttering open from where they had closed at some point during the kiss and Thorin knows in that instant that his beloved Hobbit is more beautiful than all of the wonders of Middle-earth. Brighter than the stars in the sky and the mithril within the mountains.

His dearest, beloved Halfling.

“Bilbo – ” Thorin begins, but he finds he cannot continue, the throbbing ache in his right side suddenly changed to a bright stabbing pain and black spots his vision, his hearing overtaken by a distant ringing.

“Thorin – ” Bilbo’s lips move, but Thorin cannot hear the words, and he feels Bilbo’s hand on his cheek and someone steadying him from behind.

The last clear thing he hears before he blacks out entirely is Bilbo screaming for Gandalf.


End file.
